Why do I deny myself the pleasures of life? Guilt? Guilt of what? Something to do with my father? On what grounds? Not visiting him enough in the veterans' home?

So hard to get myself to write. Too hard. I don't have the discipline or the strength.

I went to work that one day feeling happy. Looking forward to work and what would come afterward - more writing. But I only came home exhausted. I didn't feel like doing anything but resting. Afterwards, I just worked on the computer - moving data to DVDs or the other hard drive. While the DVDs were burning I ended up watching television - possibly because I couldn't find any paper - something I knew would happen. Having to completely wipe the hard drive makes me think of rebirth and my possibilities for change.

I realize now my mother won't stay in the home I grew up in forever. The place I have always known as home will eventually be gone.

What is the value of a life never lived. Either way, I don't see anything changing. If I can't envision it, it can't happen. It all just seems almost impossible. Even if I bre3ak it down into steps. Besides, some of the biggest things seem impossible to break down into steps- ie not enough self-confidence.

If only I was confident . . . I could devote one hour to writing each day.