The Journals

Photo by pure julia on Unsplash

It haunts me, entices me,
invites me in to form words, thoughts,
or squiggle along its edges.

I tore up my first diary, started 
somewhere in the awkward years, 
beyond cuteness and into self-consciousness.
Wide gap between my two front teeth,
unstylistic freckles, and hair that
was ratted by sleep and a lack
of brushing past the top layer.

I have no idea what was written
by that ten year old girl...
Crushes? Loneliness?
Shameful desires?
Nor do I remember the age I
was when I destroyed the
journal - cursed the contents
into oblivion.

My memories, like the 
diary, are torn into bits.
A corner of a page - earnestly
confessed by a child - appear
at the bottom of dusty boxes.
Boxes that have been
​carried through the
decades, but carefully
hidden behind necessary.

I wonder what that
wounded child shared?
Or is the angry teen that
buried the child's words
who needs compassion?

There is a lostness of it all.

In my trusting days, I
began journalling again,
vowing never to destroy - 
only hide.
Stacks of journals
covet the deepest of
my emotions - mostly pain.
In the potential safety of
my journals I have purged
the deep, the dark, the rage,
the triggers of life's dramas.

Each time pen blazes across
those pages, the words are
tinged with exhaustion and
too much-ness.
Yes, I may be too much,
but those moments reflect
the extremes.
Though I will concede that the
celebrations are savored 
in the here and now and 
rarely documented.

Journalling, poetry, 
articles, essays, dreams,
plans and to do's are 
ever-unfolding from
my fingertips.
The whiteness of the page
inviting me to share, to
think, to purge, to organize
with ink and lines, or 
even computer screen.
But that intentional binding
wrapped beautifully around
empty pages offers
a semblance of safety to
share from the darkness...
and probably the light,
but there's no crying 
need in the light.

The standing invitation...
with lines to keep me orderly
whether or not I know 
where I am going, where 
I end up, or my future self
approves of what's been
​written.

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