This is my journal. My real journal. The kind with actual paper that you write on with a pen or pencil. The kind you hold in your hands, then slowly crack the binding and smile slightly as you blemish the first page with your favorite ink pen. That kind of journal. The romantic old fashioned REAL kind.
I have a zillion of these books, most of them only half-filled with snippets of me. After a while, as with most things, I bore with them and a pretty new book catches my eye so I buy it and begin filling it with random doodles, heartwrenching confessions, cheesy poetry; stuff I wouldn’t dare post here. Then they go on a shelf somewhere, get stuffed into a box or under the bed and the cycle repeats with a fresh book. I like the new start a clean journal gives me. I guess its symbolic in a way that seems ridiculously obvious and trite. But still true for me.
Sometimes I read through the old ones and laugh or sometimes cringe. I’ve been known to rip out pages and burn them to keep anyone, myself included, from ever reading them again. But I always remember what I wrote. The real me isn’t on this blog or Facebook or Twitter or anywhere really, except in my journals.
…he breaks my heart a little more every time…sam rolled over today…even though i’m a grown married woman, sometimes i feel like a high school girl…my grandfather died today, i’ve been crying for hours…the power went out at work and ironically, it was the highlight of my day…i’m pregnant, holy shit…i’m in paris and in love…they think dad had a stroke…i miscarried our baby today…mom graduated from college last weekend…i am running away…tonight we kissed in the rain…