Another way to pause, to stop for a moment is to write into the diary. Yes, not the blog, the public, show-off, soul-strip version. No.
I mean the paper and pencil style, secret, modest version, that I occasionally read for myself and very rarely to a friend or my wife.
It has become something special for me, a ritual, a time-out.
At the moment, a plastic bag with all my older diaries stands next to my office chair. It is my treasure, rather vulnerable to fire and vandalism, compared with the cloud-saved 21st century blog, the bioblog, the seemingly unpublished one.
It is my treasure chest, there for a journey into my past.
My joyful, painful, unstructured, well-planned and chaotic past.
There are countless stories in these little books, stories of love and loss, of success and paradise gained, regained and lost again.
As I have time to think about time, I can as well think about my old times, too.
Time for another time-out.
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