Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
Jet Fuel.
30 January 2005 | 14:47

I passed out in the chair. Clothed, uncomfortable, and finally retreating into exhuastion.

Two hours of rest before I had enough fuel inside of me to climb into bed. Want as I might to disrobe, the fuel was burnt and for eight more hours I charged.

Waking with the electric hum of caged activity. Crackling inside me with the urge to just do. Something. Anything.

Clean. Clear-out. Rid the unnessential. Dirt discarded, mop run over, thought I'd switch to the computer.

Delete. Delete. Delete. So much worthless crap saved. And there, a hunch to view before deleting found me engange for two hours.

I posted on my other diary words that don't need to be repeated here. But I'll issue the conclusion in this autobiography of sorts.

I thought I cleared the thoughts of being an SF Medic. Now, I want it more than I ever did before. And should my mind drift from that...I'll be a doctor or a fireman. Fireman sounds damn good.

No more do I pine for zoology or the theories of physics. The stars are great to look upon, but I've so much work on this Earth to finish before I place myself in the sky.

In a past life, I was a great ruler. I knew exactly what had to be done, and did it. I don't think I'll be a ruler in this life, but I know what needs to be done. And though I may be short of resources, I promise to You that I'll still get it done.

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