turning the page...

It really gets to me that I cannot seem to get anything out besides the dribble that spews out of my fingers during these blogs. What is it all about? I have no idea where this one could go. Nor do i know why I am up this late. I seem to lose touch on how learned to write creatively. My neatly, leather bound journal with all my thoughts and junk, has now been transformed into a trusty internet connection. Which is kind of sad, because these words, are not mine. when it comes down to it, it ends up as patterns of 000111010100101001010010010010's for this to be posted. With the leather bound, I have an intimate record of what I'm really trying to say. A blog like this, doesnt have my handwriting, my ink, my personality. My journal has a bit of me. A bit of my smell, my blood so to speak. the ink from my ball point pen is the is the life line of my passion, and the pages the time line. The physical turning of each page has a lot more character than the click of the mouse button.