"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature us constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other." (p. 11)
Page eleven and Dickens has nailed the major problem with humanity; a person can never completely understand another person. I don't think anyone has any real hope in understanding themselves, so understanding other people are impossible. I'm one month from turning thirty and my own personality, temperament, individuality is just starting to come into focus. I now recognize the following things about myself: I have a temper. I bottle things up and lose control. I'm unable to cope with public embarrassment or failure. I fail to finish things. I have little confidence in myself. I need praise. I flake out on things. This entire list is negative. OK, positive, I can work hard, I can multi-task, I'm a good mother.
This is depressing, but therapeutic. There's a better me in here. Reading this wants me to start grabbing life and take some risks. If I fail, I fail, it will be good for me.
I'm doing my craft table.
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