Quiet morning, just the way I love them. No sound except for the occasional car passing by outside, the whir of my laptop, the click-clack of the keys beneath my fingers, and the wind past my window.

We refer to literary magazines as journals due to the personal snapshot nature of good poetry. It is impossible to write well if one does not live life, doing things, even small things, worth remembering and sharing with others.

This is something I intend to keep in mind. In a few weeks I will turn 26. There are a ton of things I'd meant to do before I turned 25, and I only accomplished a handful of those. I convinced myself I'd do them while 25 instead. I didn't do them then either. What have I been doing? I do things, I take on projects, but when I pull back and look at the longer list, the big huge epic laundry list, there's so much that never seems to get done.

But this is life, too. These quiet moments spent listening to the wind, poking around the Internet and enjoying your friends' writings in their weblogs, or the compelling experiments being done over at Born... Not poemworthy, perhaps, but still worth living.

There has to be a happy medium somewhere.