03/27/02 - 2:55 a.m.

Iniquity lies dormant and I just cannot seem to rouse her no matter how hard I try. She�s the personality that never has any time with the body any more.

I have lost my edge. The words no longer flow easily, instead of writing about my deepest secrets, instead I go into great detail about my inability to compose an entry for the iniquitous readers that stumble upon my diary from time to time.

It�s pathetic and laughable. The best writing only comes from inspirational pain? Is that what this experience is telling me? Without pain my writing skills fall into horrible mediocrity?

I want to revive the pieces of me that were bled out onto these pages. But I don�t know how.

Maybe I should just start from the simple and work my way up.

Today was very uneventful. Chess and I have fallen into a rhythmic comfort that rarely changes form. Not that I am complaining, I am enjoy the sense of ease that he creates. But we do irritate each other more readily than in the beginning. The soft honeymoon barrier that encapsulated us for so long is a bit thinner, but for the most part, we are still surrounded in a sweet harmony. Our luck hasn�t run out yet.

I am spending my time trying to let go of the tension that ran in my veins over the last eleven weeks. Academic affairs encourage all kinds of unhealthy thoughts. I am trying to work my way around them. I am unaccustomed to healthy methods of dealing with stressful situations, so my progress is slow, but still, it is progress.

Which is always better than the regression I faced about two years ago.