something simple

I've written in a journal since I was little, 7 or 8, I think. Then, I didn't understand the reason, the draw. I wrote about my tangible day, like diagraming a sandwich. I wrote because someone told me I should write every day. I did not think about the purpose of these pages: Is it a timeline of my life? Is it so that I don't forget what happened because I have it attached to a neat little date-heading? Will someone read it?

In the beginning, I lied in case someone might read it. I pretended spirituality in my writing. My very first journal entry was in an old green memorandum notebook with gold lettering that may have belonged to my mom. I wrote about things that happened and what I would do in the future to improve similar situations. Or maybe it was a little bear diary with a cheap gold lock that you could lock with a key, but still open without. I got it as a gift for my baptism when I was 8 yrs old. In the interview before I could be baptized, the bishop asked me if I ever lied. I said no. That was a lie, but I figured that lie would get washed away with all the other ones. I remember thinking that we should be baptized later on in life to really get our use out of the process. I remember asking if I could be baptized again later in case I sinned, and they told me I would have to leave the church and then come back. I thought that sounded like a pretty reasonable plan. I wrote about my baptism a week or so later while sitting on the floor of our van, close to home. I lied about how I felt when baptized. I wrote that I felt clean and new like a baby, words regurgitated from some lesson, another lie. I should have written that I wanted so badly to feel the change everybody spoke so passionately about, and felt nothing. Even with the lock I feared trespassers into my real, private thoughts.

I've always written in a sort of cryptic style, a code that only I can grasp entirely. I think this really shaped my current writing. I usually have an underlying message, subtle and covered over, alluded at through the use of metaphors. But then, I still have days where I feel no inspiration, and want to write, so I diagram a sandwich. The most therapeutic thing in the world for me is writing my feelings--because they are laid out and plain in front of my eyes instead of bouncing around my skull. I can touch the words, smear the ink, scratch out wrong sentences. My thoughts slow to writing pace and then reading pace, instead of sprinting just ahead of me. I can work through my emotions and come back to relive, remember.

Dear Diary,

Today was a good day. I had a very tall glass of water about 2 hours ago. I should probably drink more water. It's good for you, right? I think for dinner, I'll make the same thing I had for lunch, but with more pepper. Tomorrow is the day! The day that I finally...yes, tomorrow. Thanks again, you're the best, diary.

Amber

ps-If I was Victor Hugo, I would have described the water, the glass, the moisture pilling and running down its side. I would do this for pages and pages. I would do it for a very unimportant character indeed. I would make love to the French Revolution right in front of your eyes. My journal would be a huge brick, and I could bludgeon you to death with it. No, not you, diary. Just in general. In any case, I'm not that guy.