You say you're looking for someone

Carbondale days continues. It's nuts. It's getting harder, in some ways, to write: I'm writing about a me that's really me, and not that 12 year old, who seems like another person, another life. It's easier, somehow, to write about events that are so far beyond your control, about events which happen to you, wherein you're almost irrelevant. A tidal wave doesn't care what it washes over. But when you begin to write about an adult self, in which you're a full participant in your life and world, you have to face up to the specter of regret, among other things. That becomes hard.