2-16-07_____________________Time:2:17am

Blackness. Falling through the cracks, piling up, wrapping around familiar objects with it's inky curtain, transforming the familiar into vast crevices for… for what? When you're too old to believe in vampires and monster, you begin to be more afraid of reality than imagination. A reality that rises each morning and blinds all those who live for light, and in the night remain in darkness.
In abstract details and thoughts, half-finished dreams between sleep and consciousness, somewhere, I was prepared for this moment. Prepared to find out who I was. But what, no, who, does your past make you? Is anybody ever completely happy with their past, who they are inside, or how they got there? Perhaps, I am better off not knowing. Memories are meant to be re-lived, yet most feel the greatest emotional response when reliving the worst ones, filled with shame and perceived embarrassment, while the happiest fade bit by bit. And, if you had the power to choose a fresh start, a new life with no past, would you? Or would you want to know to validate some concept that you are already the embodiment of? Or, if you choose to know, how much better will you sleep at night with ghosts and shards of the past re-enacting inescapable defeats and slights before your eyes right just as you begin to drift in sleep.
So now, I sit on the broad rooftop of Thallow Flats, the city all but asleep before me and the heavy key anchored next to me upon the paved ridge, the black journal—still unopened. But the question I have, what I must be absolutely sure of, the one thing I keep coming back to--do I really want to know? And in the still of dark, with no breeze a cold draft wrenches the journal from it's place beside me and the journals clutters to the rooftop at my feet. The pages rustle and fall open; in the dim lit I can just make out the first entry. Goosebumps travel up my neck and the back of my arms, chills run down my back as I feel, for the first time that night, not quite alone...