None of them mentions anyone specifically. . . At least, not negatively. They're a remarkable combination of the positive and negative, a strange feeling of desperation in some cases that is tempered by an almost invisible hope. The things written are kind of random and extremely diverse. Nothing really flows into itself, but as a whole it's an interesting and complete picture.
So today, as I look at them, I wonder: let them rot, or bring them out?
I dunno. I'm unsure. I'm feeling pretty good, and I'm not actually embarrassed about the thoughts. I'm just unsure that their meaning, their being involves publication. I don't worry that they'll bring up feelings or anything like that. I think I'll be thinking this over during lunch.
Why do you read my journal?
Feel free to comment if that isn't enough space.