Burn This!

March 1st, 2011

One morning, my red journal seemed so inflammatory lying on the bed in my room in London. As if it could explode any moment. But in fact, I pull my punches in my journal, unable to be truthful even in the most private of pages. If I were, smoke would curl out of the pages, the fire of my words and thoughts would leave scorch marks of anger, lust, taboos, envy, desire, fiery sorrow, unlived lives. When I was a girl, I had a diary with a lock on it, but now I would love to have a high tech journal that would self-destruct if anyone but me opened it — maybe then I could discover/reveal the me beneath the brown paper wrapper. I think the reason I’m always irritated and unsatisfied when I reread my journals is that I don’t quite recognize the person in the pages. The one whose life seems rote rather than real. The one who is so used to hiding her thoughts from other people that she doesn’t recognize them herself anymore. Sometimes I catch glimpses, as if original me just dashed around the corner before I could catch her and bring her to fully dimensional life on paper. Instead, I find fragments of truth scattered through a series of journals, none of it adding up to a complete volume.

2 Responses to “Burn This!”

  1. I do feel I have no where to write the unvarnished truth. For me, the truth lives between the lines, of my blog, of my journals (which are mostly neglected) and in my art.

    I know where to find my truth because most of it is hidden in plain sight. And that which has never been revealed anywhere in any form is precious to me. Secrets are not always a burden. My secrets are the one thing I truly own, the piece of personal real estate no one can squat on or share.

  2. Dawn Elliott says:

    My journaling experiences usually involved hastily scrawled entries in moments of unrest and sadness…using my diary as a sounding board, or for the thoughts that played over and over in my head. I’ve had the same feelings when rereading my journals…they never add up to who I am and what I’m all about. They ARE just fragments that needed expression in the moment. I’m amused at the thought of your journals self-combusting because of tawdry personal entires – if you were ever to dare write them all down!

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