Written 1:24 am, March 1, 2003, Paris time

I was trying to find the right poem that would aptly describe what I'm feeling and what I'm thinking. In the end I decided to close my poetry book.
There just wasn't anything there.

I realized all of a sudden that the longer I become immersed in reading poetry, the harder it is to find that one poem that I can read over and over again
and say, yes, this is where I am and what I'm feeling right now.

Maybe I'm becoming more and more picky and hard to please? Or maybe I'm beginning to realize that, as with other things in life,
I look for the answers elsewhere. That what I really need are not the words of other people, not the emotions of beings.
I cannot turn to them and ask them to say what I want to say, and feel what I am feeling. I have to find my words and give voice to them.

Maybe I'm done escaping, and its time to face reality? I have to go back to who and what I was before. I have to find the courage I had and
re-learn how to say what I want to say and feel what I want to feel without shame nor guilt.