Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I am thankful that I have kept a journal.  Many journals actually.  I can say that since 2002 (at least) I have kept a fairly steady journal.  Whether it be an actual written journal,,, or my blog, I have records of so much.  I love to read back and remember exactly what it was that I was feeling, hear the music I was listening to, and see how much things have changed.  Or how they haven't changed at all.  I'm older.  I'm old.  I don't use as many exclamation points.  I don't write down every. last. detail. of every. single. day.  I'm more subtle now, I hold things back.  I keep things to myself.  I miss the raw honesty of my deadjournal.  I said anything and everything that I was thinking.  EVERYTHING!  What happened between 2002 and 2011 that makes it so I sensor myself with my own journals?  The line "It's just not me to wear it on my sleeve, count on that for sure" comes to my mind.  Except, it kind of is.  At least it used to be.

I found a paper journal yesterday from July 08 through February 2009.  It's only half full, of course.  I buy blank notebooks like they're going out of style.  I LOVE THEM.  There's something about a blank notebook that screams, "POSSIBILITIES!"  It's a story waiting to be written and a story waiting to be read.  Writing and reading.  Two of my very favorite things.  So when I find a beautiful blank book I buy it.  And I write.  And years later I find it in a closet at the bottom of a storage bin, half filled with the thoughts, lyrics, and drawings of a younger me.  They are never finished.  Except one.  I filled one entire journal in 2003.  Where is it? I would love to know.

Some time later, getting the words wrong
Wasting the meaning and losing the rhyme.
Nauseous adrenaline, like breaking up a dog fight
Like a deer in the headlights, frozen in real time
I'm losing my mind.

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