I'm two days too late and a bit sappy, but I feel I must remark on the astounding beauty of the first day of the year. The sky was that incredible "clean air" blue that I've only seen when backpacking and occasionally on cold October evenings, a color so deep it made me feel almost lonely. It's hard to describe such things (I'm out of practice, too)--but it was like a primal joy so powerful that it left me somehow isolated. Perhaps it was just the feeling of my body chemistry righting itself with the return of the sun. Or perhaps it was an omen.
Many people I know (some of them bloggers) have talked about writing as a way of experiencing life, as a "part of their being" or maybe a way of being. I wish those were my feelings. To me, writing is a desperate, scrabbling, disorganized attempt to express feelings and describe moments in time and place that were never and could never be words. I've always left something out or barely approached the edges of an experience. I always feel inarticulate, clumsy, hackneyed, and stupid. My diaries are always miserable for me to read later. But I try because I want to remember what I felt and saw, even if so inaccurately. What other option do I have?