I return to the entries in this journal every now and then. I wrote the bulk of them in a pretty tulmutuous point in my life, I suppose. The sheer mass of darkness and drama and emotive rambling sometimes suprises me. I can read through them and still conjure up the pain or the sadness or the helplessness I felt at that point. I can still read them and feel what I felt, and I can still make myself sad when I remember. But they also feel so inconsequential. I've managed to be in a place in my life now where I feel so much more in control. No, not in control, just.. content with my lot. I'm no longer dealing with the insane issues of the dating world "does he like me" "what is he thinking" "what did that mean" "what am I doing?"... I've found someone utterly wonderful, and have managed to stick with him-whole heartedly and ecstaticly- for almost a year. I feel like I have a comfortable direction in my life. I have a plan, but not a plan so rigid that I can't amend it when needed. I'm moving forward, and I'm immersed in doing things that I love. I've left certain things behind, that needed to be put into the past. Its not perfect, but life never is. Hell, perfection would be boring. Nothing left to strive for. But no matter what, he's by my side. I've found a my complimentary half... *pause for geeky joke* I've found the Adenine to my Thymine.... I know, I know... I'm rambling, and I'm being gross, and this is the point where Anna would hit me... but I only seem to write these entries when I'm in the dark place, or something bad has happened. I'm putting this out here for some balance. Unfortunately, I write much more eloquently when I'm pouring my tortured soul out into the annals of the interwebs...