The Irony of Journaling
I found this poem the other day, and was struck by the irony. I wrote it years ago about a turning point.
For many years I had faithfully journaled. For me it was essential, not only to growth, but to sanity as well. Like many, I filled it with a variety of thoughts: some that I chose to share, and others that I adamantly kept private. Unfortunately, at one point in my life I felt forced to completely give up writing, because I had a girlfriend obsessed with violating that sacred trust and reading those journals that I had reserved for my private thoughts. Many of you have probably experienced this in one form or another. So, not only did I stop writing, but I got lit up, and torched my journals. I know, I know... stupid, stubborn, melodramatic, unnecessary... but it actually felt fucking great! I could still read them--burned into my memory.
It is so ironic now, because not only am I writing again, but posting online for virtually anyone to read. It’s an odd reversal. Anyway, this is the little pome I drunkenly jotted out as the flames consumed years worth of my thoughts, feelings, ideas, in words...
The burning
Of my journals
The smoke
The smell
Working through
This journey
Aflame
Abridge
(To) the past
While in the present
In our brains
Our neurons
Afire
Across synapses
Across time
So these passages
I’ll resign
But the ashes
They’re mine
And nobody
Can read them
But me