someday.

I want you to realize I am the one before I realize I am not.

a blank page in an open book.

writing.
writing.
writing.

If i keep doing this will something worth while come out? Is it like trying to figure out someone's name by going through the entire alphabet 'till something rings a bell?

"a... b...br...be...bi...c...d...da...de...di... LINDSAY!"

I am not thinking so.

I have always been able to write. My nightstand of leather-bound ramblings attests to this. So what's up this year that my words have not been legible? I pick up a pen (or a keyboard) and nothing comes out. No truths. No quippy little do-dads. No lovely poetic tidbits. Nadda.

So, an entry on nothing is what we have. In hopes that this will lead to that. And that will be worth something more.

I feel, lately, that I have lost a bit of passion. A passion that is woven into some sort of readable version of myself.  my "openbookiness."

There is this question.  It was asked of me the other day. "what are your three greatest passions?" (or something along those lines.)
My answer:

family.
friends.
creativity.

Maybe these can be written about later.

Passion preludes eloquence.