Lately, I never seem to know how to start an entry. I know what it is that I want to write about. I know all of the major points that I want to make. A lot of times, I know what the last sentence will be. It's that first sentence that's eluding me. I want the first sentence to grab people, and to not let go of them until they've read the entire entry.

Tonight, I wanted to write about overflow. And, for a first sentence, I whined and complained. That's just not right at all. But, lately, I don't seem to be able to do any better. And that's the point I was making with that first sentence.

Anyway.

I've been doing this blogging crap for over four years now. I don't even want to count how many entries I've written, but MoveableType tells me that this is the 2,422st entry in my barenada.com blog. Off the top of my head, I'd guess that there are another 100 or so entries scattered about my other blogs.

Over 2,500 entries. And you know how many have been readable, meaningful? You know how many have been completely honest and candid?

A couple of dozen. Maybe, If I'm feeling generous, maybe three dozen.

I can go back and read those entries, the ones that are readable. And I do go back and read them fairly often, for various reasons, most of which are of interest only to me. But one of the reasons is to remind myself and prove to myself that I'm capable of so much more than what I normally write.

Sometimes, it's like I transcend my own abilities. It's really an amazing feeling, when everything falls into place, and all of the right words just flow onto the screen. I know that I can write, every now and then. The trick seems to be in doing it all the time. Or, at least, doing it more often than not.

The people who know me, they know what I've gone through. And most of those people know what I'm going though right now. And yet, I continue to write mundane irrelevant drivel. Because, for now, that's all I can write. Because, for now anyway, I can contain myself.

Eventually, I manage to fear and hope with nearly equal intensity, eventually these words and thoughts inside my head will no longer be contained. They'll overflow my mind and run down my arms and out through my fingers and onto my keyboard and into the world. I will become a like a mountain spring. A spring of what, exactly, I'm not sure.

Honesty.

Candor.

Passion.

Sorrow.

Love.

Hate.

Anything, anything but drivel. I'm so fucking sick and tired of drivel.

Damn, I want to be free of these shackles. But, I fear, I'd be dangerous without them.

This isn't the entry that I thought I'd write.

It never is.