Last summer, in the throes of immediate post-grad unemployment, I set the lofty task aside for myself to write an exhaustive diary entry of every day of my life. Record my feelings from wake-up to bedtime, moments significant and inconsequential. Somehow this timeline, personal and intimate, fully exhaustive of emotions, would provide a detailed account for any and all views of my life develop from here on out.
Needless to say, I didn't reach this goal. Sure enough, points of extreme frustration or bliss have driven me to write thorough accounts of some of life's mini adventures, but I haven't been able to record anything approaching my "mock memoirs"
Maybe its better to not reach this Borgesian level of literary self-discovery and introspection through writing. Nonetheless, I failed to write regularly. Writing is one of my deepest passions and greatest assets.
The ability to craft a coherent voice is a gift that should never go to waste.
Now, in my unique limbo of post-grad/political acolyte life, maybe my voice has some value. It's probably going to only be my dad, brother, and mom reading this. Maybe a few other scattered friends, followers, and "fans". But of course, more than anything this is to keep my voice loud and practiced.
So I apologize in advance if my life is far from interesting. I'll do my best to shout somewhat melodiously into the ether. And if no one actually reads this, maybe it will drive me to at least carry through on my personal feat of magical realism.
oh, and as for the title, the barrier is laziness of course. and maybe a bit of a need for discretion.
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