Kona Yaro
I dreamt last night of a rusty water. You know the type that sits in the rusted out shell of a 40 gallon drum? It has a metal tang to it, and has a twisted red reflection. I woke up thought i could still taste it in the air. I hate that.

I have written a diary for years now. Sometimes on paper, sometimes on the computer, and a couple of times in small letters between the lines of bad books. But I've never read back over them. As in, not once. But looking at my bookselfes and seeing the motley collection of journals and notebooks that contain unimaginably insignificant details of now forgotten heartbreaks, breakups, missed trains, confused decisions, long travels and awkward awakenings, I know it wasn't in vain.

In days gone by, people made maps of the new places they went, not for the sake of the islands they found, but so that they could find their way back there (or avoid it, depending on the island (kong))

And thats why i decided to livejournal it up. Too long have I been keeping these multitudinous thoughts in the dark of isolation. If is time for them to walk by themselves in the light of public perception (or at least, the potential of it).