As I sit here at the keyboard and think about writing, I think about how my journal first appears or how this page appears before me now. Line by line, page by page, the spaces will be filled in, from empty to full. As I write, this "clean slate" becomes less and less empty, more and more full. As a reader, you cannot see what I see. You see the result, the line upon line, page upon page, words creatively manipulated in space. Words do not fill up every space as space itself is used to differentiate between words. The space assists the communication process that you, dear reader, my ascertain what is on my mind, in my heart. (Anticipating the philosophical repercussions . . .) In a sense, this is our life. There is a writer and there is a reader of life. Who is the writer? Particularly, I am the writer of this entry, but I am not the author of my life. I am merely the page, as a book does not write itself, nor does it read itself but bears witness of that which is written. Th...