An explanation, despite its verbosity

I am not the sort of person who keeps a diary.

People who keep diaries are able to pin down their ideas--committing anything to paper or its electronic substitute. They have the ability to write, in an intimate way, about everything: from the mundane and comfortably dull events in their lives, to the absolute exhilaration or despair that can be their emotional state sometime around midnight on a Sunday.

I am nothing like that. I'll pin my fingers to a page sooner, and far more often, then I will an idea. I'm impatient, forgetful, and I have bloody shocking handwriting. (It needs to be noted here, reader, that I, also unlike the average diary writer, am not the sort of person who would like to write out her deepest, most secret thoughts and keep them private. Whenever I disclose something, I mean it for the world; not mildew. So legibility is a big issue with me.)

Thinking that the blood from my fingers might add a certain element of something to my writing, were it to be miraculously discovered by a benevolent-yet-business-savvy publisher, I used to try and keep many diaries, practically since the day dot. They all failed, of course. My livejournal hasn't been updated in a year.

I can't even write regular letters. This is not usually a problem, considering my nearest and dearest all know this from sad experience, and thus I don't ever get any mail. However, it is a good way of showing you how singularly irregular I am. I'm terrible. It is an embarrassment, and also rather bad for my prospects as an author, now I appear to lack the two things that most successful writers appear to have in abundance: a troubled childhood, and some sort of journal, which may or may not be my only friend. In plain language, I'm screwed.

Along with this inability to maintain a two-way correspondence, comes a peculiar self-consciousness. I can flirt well enough, but can't write a love-letter to save my life. Now that I am in the painful, romance-novel-worthy position of being in love with someone on the other end of the earth, my awkwardness when it comes to being demonstrative is starting to worry me. I feel…clumsy.

My girlfriend spelled out how much she loved me through writing she posted here. It was the most wrenching, flattering, and--dare I say it--the sweetest moment in my life, reading those for the first time. I tried to repay in kind, but ended up taking refuge, as I usually do, in humour and far too many words. Just as I am here.

I've decided, though, that I am going to try again. Determinedly ignoring any pinpricks my fingers may have to endure.

I am something of a lucid dreamer, so it seems only natural that I use this strange ability to my advantage. If you choose to read on, even though these chapters are really only meant for one particularly beautiful pair of blue eyes, then you'll be reading my dreams. Written down, either through poetry or prose, as faithfully as I can manage. Perhaps I may improve my writing, while I address my flaw.

This is not a diary. Do not expect regularity. Just expect the truth.

My love, these are for you.

Sweet dreams...

Kit.