Hmmmmm, a journal. I haven’t kept a journal for myself since I discovered that my brother was using mine as reading material, while in the can, when I was eleven years old. In fact, I think that poor thing was read by more people than the Bible. The irony of this being that I’m now posting one specifically for the purpose of being read by others. Time really does change a lot of things.
Well, maybe I can’t say that I haven’t been keeping a journal. I suppose it might be in how one looks at it. I’ve been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil, and most of it is poetry. I have a massive collection of poems that I keep in a three ring binder. Would that be considered a journal of sorts? I mean, good poetry (the kind that has a voice of it’s own) is basically raw emotion and thoughts that have been stylized and manipulated to bring pleasure to the ear and mind. The real beauty of it, is that it can mean so many things to so many people. It’s a lot more open to interpretation than, say, The Diary of Anne Frank.
So, maybe all this time, I really have been keeping a journal. I’ve just been keeping one that can be read by millions and still keep the secrets locked up tight. Wow, I’m more brilliant that I thought I was! Of course, I have now shared this little epiphany with everyone, so I guess that blows that. Then again, I have been told that posting an old poem of mine would be akin to cheating, so I won’t be throwing any of them up for criticism anyway. I guess this puts me back to square one. Still, I would be ever so grateful if no one printed this up to use as bathroom fodder. Some wounds never heal.
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