Well, yes. I have spent my time in efforts, alternatively, asserting, bruising, burying, stroking, my ego, trying to rid my id of its right to party. Phui. (It's the way Rex Stout, mystery writer and creator of Nero Wolf, spells it.) It has been a struggle to reach out to the world, and some of this will be about that, I expect. Some of this is that. I have never written in a diary; talking to myself...it doesn't impel me. Nor would it anyone else, I suspect. I like what Oscar Wilde's character, Cecily, I believe, says of her diary, admittedly, a complete work of fantasy: (I paraphrase here.) "I always take my diary with me when I travel. One should always have something sensational to read on the train."
I am not a sensational person. But, some might say, I have experienced some sensational times. When I was an actor I would translate characteristics I observed. Now that I no longer act, the urge to express those observations, and the need to keep my imagination flexible, is paramount. It is where my sanity lay. (Is that correct usage?)
But, now, as I put above somewhere, the warm kisses are awakened, and I am wanted there...after all...this is not about me.