Meet my journal. You won’t find a leather cover with fine stitching on the binding, only manilla envelopes. You won’t find fine watermarked paper, only college ruled notebook paper. You won’t find edited, finely tuned sentences, only emotional and intellectual vomit in the form of incomplete sentences and incoherent ramblings that have risen to the surface just long enough for me to spew forth into the world in a tangible form. These are not “memoirs”. I laugh at the idea, even. For the past two and half years, for three pages or more, I have released and withheld a bit of myself everyday, both of which speak volumes. During this time, I have not gone back and read a single page. Not even one. It’s the the cathartic process that I am after, not the product.
But I hold onto these ragged little vessels with the thought one day I will go back and read a page or two. And until the time when I read back through the past, I write. I write about this, or that, whatever comes to mind. The negative, the positive, the grocery list on to a to-do list. I’ve come to the place that in order to get on with my life, I must get it out onto paper first. When I write, I look at people, events squarely, right in the eye. And in doing so, I allow the bile of anxiousness to bubble up to the surface, exposing crystal clear water from an eternal spring beneath. And this is water I will drink from. This is the water that nourishes me.