I feel nervous putting pen to paper—I have unreasonably high expectations for whatever comes of it.  It feels good, though—refreshing and full of promise. Like I could get good at it again.  Well, as good as any teenager with a squeaky clean idealistic world view could possibly have been.

And maybe that’s the point—I have more to think about now, and hopefully more to say.  I have been afraid to mine my recent experiences in case I came across something I couldn’t handle, but now I worry that the memories have faded too much.  I want to write about the storm, but so many details are already lost.  Burden or blessing- I guess we’ll never know.  Such a vivid moment—and me, too sleepy to stare, wide-eyed, and commit it to the depths of memory.  I kept the memory to myself for a while—selfish but beautiful and entirely mine.  Even Dave didn’t see the moment I saw—he was too busy being a part of it.