Tiny pieces of paper, probably tens of thousands of them, haunt my memory. Some haunt boxes in the basement, others are in a file beside the bed or scattered all over the house, most are lost with the passage of time, but everyone of them is mine. Pieces of paper, some are typewritten, most are not. Most are written with a frenzied scrawl only I can read, somewhat.
They are my ideas, my stories and my dreams and I have been writing them down since my weak little grip barely gripped a pencil at four.

I was quiet and misunderstood. My family ignored me and I found that the world inside my
head to be much more fascinating than the real world. And I wrote. Cute little childish stories gave way to essays at school that impressed the teachers and saved my @$$ a number of times.
I grew to be teen and turned to poetry, if one could call it that. Whatever it was, it was bad.
It was dark and depressing and really sort of pathetic, as was I at the time.

Time passes, I kept writing. that is one of the major constants in my life. I have always written.
Rarely have I finished anything. I have a problem with that.

I will confess right now: I am a chronic starter, I have a million interests and a million "projects",I rarely finish anything...But time, as I said, passes. And to follow a dream one must stick your
neck out and take a chance. I can't keep hiding and scribbling on bits of paper.

....Speaking of Mario, my famous genius cat.....I think he may be a bit of an aspie. I have come upon this theory due to careful observation of his daily behavior. I would ask him, he seems quite bright for his age, but he never speaks to me, not a word. He seems aloof, even quite indifferent sometimes.
He doesn't seem to have many friends, he is quite the loner, not social at all. The neighborhood cats never call and I don't think he's ever even had a date.
He spends a lot of time alone in the backyard with his favorite obsession: Birdwatching. Birdcatching and playing with pieces of colored plastic. That, he can do for hours and never seems to tire of it. He usually sticks to his routine which consists of sleeping all day and doing who know what all night. He is a fussy eater who refuses anything but his friskies.
He hates the smell of my scented candles and he hates it when I play the bagpipe until the wee hours, he just leaves. He's jumpy and kind of nervous, he hides under the bed when guests arrive. I don't think he likes people much. But he seems to like me and I like him.
He is a quirky cat, I cannot deny, but he also is intelligent (he's a genius) loyal, affectionate and an all around perfect pet to have and I think we are perfect for each other.

Here I am in this cage with these birds, these winged multi- colored birds flying around and over my head, chirping with their angry little beaks. swooping down and greedily stealing tiny white cups of nectar from chubby fisted little kids. I am at the zoo with my daughter, she wanted to come in here with these birds, these damn Lorrikets. I am an animal lover but these birds scare me. They keep flying all over and screeching. These birds are disturbing. They are a bit aggressive. I don't blame the poor birds. but I don't trust them, I just know that one will #%*@ on me I am the only one bothered by this. I retain my composure but it is soon becoming too much. I have to get out... I want to leave.. Right Now........

Today we went to the zoo and for someone like me, it is quite the Sensory Overload Zone.
The sounds, the exotic smells, the sights, the feelings....Speaking of feelings, I sometimes feel
sort of guilty at the zoo. I feel that we humans have given them ( the animals)the short end of the stick. I also think that some animals are more intelligent than some people given them credit for.
I mean my cat, Mario, is practically a genius. He decided to stay home today.

I am supposed to be writing. And the strange thing about it is that I am writing. I'm writing to avoid writing. That is a new one, even for strange me. It's not that I don't write, I do. or I did. I wrote constantly. I sure as hell didn't say anything verbally. I would have perferred to write everything but that does not fly in the real world.
A lot of what I am compelled to do does not fly in the real world. That is why I am trying to make my world as unreal as possible. Perhaps then I will sprout wings and fly.....

but the world is really real and here I really am avoiding writing by writing. ( At least I am writing) this seems like the perfect place to get over my fear of writing...? How can I be afraid of the very thing I am doing now?
I guess I am afraid of someone reading what I write....

A lifetime a made of moments and there are only so many of them.
Within these streams of moments there are special moments in a person's lifetime where happenstance forces a snap decision....

You must decide, not deciding is a decision.
This decision alters everything and one's whole life is changed, never to be the same.

I have many such moments stored up in my 41 years of memory. It is suprising how many of them are small things. Things that never really seemed important at the time but now, in circumspect, I see how one thing can lead to another and how time is a river and you can never step in the same place again. My fault really lies not with any one decision per say, but in my inability to make any decision at all. My whole life I let fate decide my whole life and I am lucky to be where I am today.

Sometimes fate comes at you like a train wreck and forces your hand rather abruptly, more often than not, it comes as a whisper. If ignored, the whisper keeps getting louder, little by little, louder and LOUDER UNTIL IT IS SCREAMING AT YOU!

Do you listen?? I have decided.. yes decided, to listen, to that little voice, that tells me to do something. This thing I must do. This takes courage.

I must acknowledge why I hold back, why I hide,I must acknowledge that it is Fear that holds me back.I cannot let it stand in my way any longer.