Christmas passed. I spent it with Sam (my friend and boss), his wife, and his two kids. I enjoyed my time with them, and seemingly them with me. There are so many things I would like to register, but I won't because I would be compromising their privacy. Now I understand why it's better to be anonymous: it's not for you, it's for the people around you.
As my life becomes intertwined with other lives, this writing endeavor becomes increasingly constrained because of privacy concerns. It was during this two day Christmas stay that I understood how to escape it. I was reading a profile on Canadian author Alice Munroe on the nytimes when I understood she wrote fiction to process her emotional life in the same way I do when I write these texts.
I will write fiction for a couple of days to see how it feels. It's mostly new to me, and I'm a bit concerned about becoming attached to the quality of object creation. This process of writing has never been about creating things, it's a self therapy of sorts and if writing fiction fails at this, then I will surely revert to the autobiographical registration of experience.
Anyways, it's 3:44am, I just spoke to my family on the phone. It was all so awkward. Perhaps I ought to write a short story on that.