bpg2

This is the first time I have written in a journal since I was a young kid. I dunno. My shrinkologist says it would be good for me. So here I am. I'd say I want to quit smoking, but I won't. I got kicked out of the military because they thought I was a psycho and they didn't want to deal with me. They need a smily that shows not caring. Personally I don't care who reads this. What I write here is for my own benefit, or lack there of.
You know, the shrinks, they all say that in place of self mutilation you should excercise or volunteer to do something and that will make you feel better. None of it works. It isn't the same. You can't replace that assurance that you still live and bleed. I don't even feel it when I cut my flesh. To slurp the blood off your arm. It is indescribable. The taste, that is. Salty, reminds me of a pickle. I don't know why.
Oh well. I have often asked myself:
The past is just a memory. If it takes time to process a thought, then would it not be fair to say that percieved reality is just a recently aquired memory? If so, then all life is, in essence, a memory. And if that is so, then the future is just a memory that we choose to experience. We have no choice in choosing the experience, but we can manipulate the path we take in aquiring sed memory. If we so choose to do so.
Just a thought, they come and go.
Goodbye
bpg2@adelphia.net