I woke up with a sore throat this morning. I feel stuffy and cloudy now. I suppose it matches the day -- warm, but not consistently bright. I had a bath to ease my back.
I suppose this is my version of "This lime-tree bower, my prison." I'm a bit Coleridge today, whiny and self-important. Mike, Scott and Caroline went our to sightsee and go to Beacon Hill Park. My back is still spasming randomly so I am home, alone, considering the garden, considering going back to bed.
Yesterday I thought about how I write: in my journal, I am surprisingly careful, holding back some bits, exaggerating others. I don't quite understand the journal concept -- why keep one? To have a written record, yes, but I'm not sure if it's for me or for the future. Maybe someone will find it and read it and I've secured some immortality by tracking my life. When I write here, with just the possibility of public consumption, I am less restrained, but I also write about things less private. I do not write about family conflicts or issues with friends or intimate bodily details. I also type here, whereas I hand-write most of my academic or creative writing. I have no desire to delete here -- it's a very of-the-moment mode of writing, and I don't feel the need to record anything for posterity (although I do get a kick out of the date stamp on every entry, especially since it isn't entirely accurate if I don't publish an entry right away). This is, I suppose, an exercise for me. It is a unique way to write: to know it can be read but not to know by whom. I write freely here. I feel particularly enlightened today.
...if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.