Paths

I have a journal. I have several actually. Most sit empty. A few are only begun. Some are even written in from the back, upside down. They are empty not because I don't have anything to say, or because I don't have thoughts worth capturing. They remain unfilled, because I have too much to say, too many thoughts, too many paths. I don't know where to begin or which to assign a road to. It is as if I am afraid that the improper use of the pages is in some way a travesty a disgrace to the fibers of it. Much like I have pictured my home being, there are so many sides to which I am true, if that is possible. It makes me feel double minded, but perhaps I am just multifaceted! Perhaps I am not to be simple or easy to figure out. But complicated and interesting. I like the sound of that better.