I read this blog to catch up with the persons that I have been. Sometimes I do not recognize my voice in what I have written. There are essays I wrote two or three or five years ago that still make me cry. There are one or two things I wish I had done differently. There are persons I can remember only in my words. There are certain sorrows I should not like to forget. My feelings in the morning are often different from my feelings before bed, generally I feel sadder upon waking, though I find that it is more convenient to weep at night. This morning I thought it would be best for me to live in seclusion and alone, but tonight I thought how wonderful it was to come home to a house lit with people. I like that I have a room which only I enter. I like the notes, tables, and diagrams taped to my walls. I like that no one can tell me what to do or how to live my life, even if that also means I am seldom asked how I really am, or if I have already eaten. I write because nobody asks, sometimes I prefer it this way and sometimes I do not. I am an excellent listener, but I am not a very good friend. I expend so much energy caring for myself that often I have little left with which to comfort other people. The company I keep is small. Noise in every form appalls me. I have to remind myself to be kind. Sometimes I feel like I have more thoughts in a day than some people have in a month. I wonder if I live too much inside my head. Some nights I am convinced that no one is going to love me, sometimes this alarms me and sometimes it does not. I know that I am getting older, but still I get reminders that this is so. I want a love built like a shelter, a favorite hiding place. I want a love I can sleep with beneath the covers of a book. I want a love I can hold by the hand and walk with for hours under the sun, rain, trees, and tears. I want a love that is constant and fervent and sure, not the kind that makes me feel like a dog begging for scraps at a table. Maybe I am not lovable, or maybe I have not met someone who would consider me enduringly so. There is someone I should want to forget. There is someone to whom I would like to say, Forget me, even if it seems the forgetting is done. I keep misremembering my age, I think it’s because I am unsatisfied with what I have accomplished. There are things I would like to change in the world. There are very many things I wish I could be better at, even if I like the person I am becoming now. If I should die tomorrow, I would like to say that I am at peace with how I have lived my life, though I find nothing admirable about it. I worry that perhaps I forgive myself too often. I know that I forget too easily, because I do not have any regrets.