Someone Else Wrote This

I wonder what's behind all those stories about parallel universes, and people having doubles—since there are a lot of those stories—but those things don't really exist, right? At least not in recorded history, or according to science. But there are times when you just get that feeling, I guess.

I've had a lot on my mind lately, a lot of things upsetting me, things I can't write about (for various reasons). I think that writing about the stuff that upsets you is one of the best ways to be less upset about whatever it is, but if you can't write about it, what do you do? I guess I could write in a private notebook rather than in a public journal like this... but I just can't see that. I mean, imagine me with a notebook and a pen! Ha!

Of course. the person I used to be would have written in a notebook with a pen, and that person still exists somewhere. Maybe there are infinite versions of ourselves... a new one for each new moment. A moment being each instance in which something changes. Change being the only constant. Constance being a girl's name. Which reminds me of that poem, "The Main Fact About A Hill." I think that was the name of it. I can't find it anywhere.