Why do I remember tem years ago as ig it were yesterday? What is this curse? Or is it a gift? Sometimes I believe I must be doomed to write. Or so fated. It is not pleasant. Nor terribly unpleasant; just... odd. And a little frustrating. It makes it very hard to let go.
I try to be a good buddhist. I know, I know, can't get there by trying. Still, I am as of yet relatively young and inexperienced, I feel I make some effort, that effort has some merit.
Been reading Davies. Robertson, that is. Not the fiction, some lectures. Somewhat inspirational, somewhat depressing. I need more discipline. But without positive reinforcement, it's very hard to find.