Porthole

Scibbles on a tattered page (stardate unknown)

I sometimes write in the margins of old-fashioned paper. The sense of touch grounds me.

I found this tattered scrap when I rummaged through my cubicle. It has no stardate.

I journal to jot down thoughts. Audio, visual, any means to save them for later works fine for me. My personal notes are meaningless to our mission of course.

Why am I here?
What do I fear?
Who do I long for?
What worries me the most?

My answers seem childish. I'm sure I'll look back and laugh. Right now I just need to put them on paper. My hand feels the pressure but obeys my mind.

What are my plans then? To survive another day and then another. In time maybe this will become easier. They want me to keep an unofficial log to train myself how to observe better. If I show promise they may promote me to write an official one.

They say by 'doing' I'll learn. I look at these scribbles and hope that comes true ... soon.

I did get better. But I don't log in a technical capacity now-a-days. I'm here to observe, takes notes, think deep, make suggestions.

I no longer waste time focusing on my inadequacies. I have abilities. And although they aren't stellar, I'm okay with that.



We set ourselves in orbit around

BOOK

A Piece Of My Heart  (18+) A blog to house my musings, curiosities, and fascinations. #2166092 by Emily

We found this:

"When it came time for me to start blogging again, I found myself paralyzed. I was trapped by the belief that my blog had to be unique, that it had to have a defined theme, and that it had to be appealing to everyone. After some time scouring Google for advice, I realized that if all I did was worry and plan, I would spend forever worrying and planning and never get to writing."

Analyze and report. What do you think? Do you agree or disagree?