There are things unbearable. And there are unbearable things worth bearing.

Today, during my lunch break, I got utterly lost among the mountains and hills of Pennsylvania. and I was really happy about it.

This is my 500th post in this blog. I have been blogging since 1999, when my friend Elissa and I started fooling around with the concept of journalling online. Coding our own simple, HTML-based journals hosted by Angelfire. Then we were hosted by a girl we had never met on Silverfire.net, which also still exists. Then we got ourselves into Livejournal (somehow mine still exists). I've blogged with friends at phuzzymath.net, and I've blogged on my own. I've blogged at tigerose.org, which I still own, but now redirects to rosekuo.org. I've written about food, humor, relationships, and professional life. There have been many attempts and iterations of blogs under many different aliases, and I have never been sure about how to express myself online. I change my mind all the time and sometimes my inconstancy is my constancy. I've tried collaborations and different mishmashes of photos and words and thoughts. I've tried to be perfect. I've purposely striven for imperfection. I've spelled things wrong and then corrected them later. I've spelled thing wrong on purpose. I've spelled things wrong and never bothered to correct them. I've edited and re-edited. I've kept the original. I've tried to use correct punctuation, and I've tried to use no punctuation at all. I've been inconsistent in my use of capitalization. I've changed my mind about who I share my online presence with. I've struggled with how to reconcile my personal writing and photography with my professional life. I've struggled with how to reconcile what I write online with what my significant others have wanted me to write. I use pronouns instead of names. I use initials instead of pronouns. I use names. I've gone through periods of writing nothing at all, for months and months. I've gone through phases of only writing down what others have said to me. I've gone through phases of only writing down what I've read.  I've identified myself as a person who writes, but not a writer. And vice versa.

The thing that matters most is that we haven't stopped trying to create. and I really think that's why I share. It's all a process, creation, creativity, art, writing, sharing. Perhaps it helps us become who will be, or perhaps it helps others realize who we are. In the end, I'm grateful for the opportunity to read others' writing and to share my own. My earliest dream, as told to my mother when I was old enough to scribble in plastic pink diaries, was to be an "arthur" (which was my incorrect pronunciation of author). Without this outlet (and the devoted friends who encouraged me to keep this outlet), I am sure, I would not have continued writing.