I was standing outside in the rain the other day thinking about why I keep a journal. Since I was thirteen, I’ve written rather irregularly in spiral notebooks, hardcover books, the inside of envelopes, and on various scraps of paper. My journals range from essays to poetry, and even some one liners. I thought it might be convenient to scan them all and store them on a USB drive. Well, this isn’t entirely true. I actually was thinking of how much more I would write if I could do so without the fear of someone reading my innermost thoughts and using it as evidence to have me committed to a “facility” for the rest of my life.
All this led me to some of the more interesting moments in my life. In my 30 years, I’ve managed to collect a wealth of stories that range from the absurd to the tragic and the brilliant to the insane. I’ve shared several stories with dear friends and a few strangers., but many of these stories are doomed to collect dust in my head. Unless, of course, I go ahead and start writing some novels as my therapist once suggested. (He is one of the rare souls who knows these stories and thinks they are perfect fodder for some fiction.) In the end, I couldn’t help but think of how much of life gets taken to the grave.
Having rambled on through my disclaimer, I’m now too tired to continue. So here is a poem I started writing about my stories.
My Stories
They are sensual and seedy.
Some are tragic.
Some are greedy.
They are a part of me.
They are thriving and thrilling.
Some are magic.
Some are silly.
They are a part of me.
Comments