Instead of working at writing, I freeze in dreams, unable to take disillusion of rejections.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle-age.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love. I am still so naive; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don't ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

There is the upswing, the turning, the sprouting of creative life again. I have gone through my winter solstice, and the dying god of life and fertility is reborn.

Good-night, sweet princess. You are still on your own; be stoic; don't panic; get through this hell to the generous sweet overflowing giving love of spring.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do. A lifetime is not long enough.

Something in me wants more. I can't rest.

Spring is in the pink and lavendar paint stains on the floor; in the pink and orange neck of the girl in front of me; in the crooked part in her yellow hair...

doe-eyes of a strange girl with brownish hair

How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

The rain's rather nice. It makes you feel good inside, elemental, just to listen.

To bed, deep dream sleep. Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets.

The brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love. I am still so naive; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don't ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

I must rest this week end & start writing. Mellifluous Schumann. Eyes droop - what will come of this new year?

There is the upswing, the turning, the sprouting of creative life again. I have gone through my winter solstice, and the dying god of life and fertility is reborn. In fact, my personal seasonal life is two months ahead of the spring equinox this year!

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

I am feeling depressed from being exposed to so many lives, so many of them exciting, new to my realm of experience. I pass by people, grazing them on the edges, and it bothers me.