"Bitchin'."

That's what someone wrote in response to my blog entry from last night. I don't know why I'm writing all of this and publishing it to the world. It's weird that people can reply. It's weird that no one knows who I am.

Or maybe someone does know. It's possible a friend, or even my parents--if they ever figured out how to use the computer I gave them--could read this. There's all kinds of ways that a search might turn the blog site up. Access to my journals. My mind. My joys, and more frequent recently, my fears.

So I spin the dial on my I-Pod, hoping to find a song that can drown this all out. Drown the voices. Erase the inevitable. Rewrite my promise so I can live with it.

I can't go back. I've got to go forward. Toward. Could I run away? Could I say fuck it? Would he hunt me down if I didn't show up?

Could I bring the cops or the F.B.I., or some other "authority" figure there? What would happen then? If I not only broke my promise but had to ask for help?

Will I fight him. Can I win. Could I kill him.

When I was a kid I always cried when I got in a fight. When I was seventeen I made a promise to myself I'd always trust love. Never fight. Die like Gandhi if I had to, on the heady path of non-violence.

Whatever stops me from talking to Dillan about this, I swear, it's not pride. I'd like it to quit interfering. But I have to be careful.

Because I made the promise I have to be honest.

Which means, I guess, that I can't post these words. They say too much.