"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection." - Anais Nin
I think most of us know someone who keeps a daily diary or journal. The type of person who keeps a merticulous record of their writings. They end each day with a cup of joe or a spot of tea, maybe scotch on the rocks. They sit in a large comfy velvet armchair and pull out a brown tattered hardcover journal with their name imprinted on it in Old English - very masterpiece theatre-ish. Then with a majestic fountain pen poised over a blank page, they relax and write to their heart's content.
I don't mean to criticize daily diarists. In fact I totally envy them. I wish I had that sort of self discipline, and I also wish I could drink straight scotch but I can barely handle a wine cooler much less hard liquor. It is this methodical type of journaling that often intimidates me from keeping a daily diary. I always feel a pressure to be profound on the first few pages of my entry and sometimes that pressure I place on writing something-smart-so-I-can-look-back-on-it-later doesn't always help in my pursuit to jot down my thoughts on a daily basis.
My writings are scattered on paper but mostly on internet blogs. I have several online blogs including xanga and today out of sheer boredom, I went back and started reading them. I do know since I started writing that it has always been a form of therapy for me, just the same as reading other people's thoughts. There is personal substantiation in seeing your own strange thoughts exhibited in someone else's cerebral showcase.
It is in the countless quiet hours I've spent writing in my journals on and offline, I have recorded moments both simple and emotionally inundating, I have scratched wounds wide open in order to start the healing process; I have recorded my vices with a trembling hand and laugh at them later. I have identified some of my most glaring flaws with the hopes of correcting them. I've written the most lovey dovery mushy mashy heart felt love notes. I have written to release and found sanity in my words. And today, for the countless time, I start a new journal, a gift from my sister.
Thank You B.
- the person who has always read my writings, and loved me just the same.
