For, ma petite, such fickleness of the human mind that it soon lets go of whatever it sees; if you would keep it, you must take it down with words.
– Margaret George, Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles
A life filled with living creates many memories, ones sometimes not so readily remembered, at least, not all that accurately. I began writing in a journal when I was a small child, my attempt at anchoring my life, though I know I wouldn’t have called it that then.
My first journals were of stories and poetry, the beginnings of manipulation and contemplation of words and ideas. And then those journals encompassed the whole of my life, the feelings that bombarded my being, the day dreams that plagued my vision of the world, and the night dreams that wrestled me awake in the early hours. I was overfilled with imagery and questions.
Those early journals rest comfortably in a corrugated cardboard box, collecting dust in storage, and avail themselves to me whenever I’m in need of them. And sometimes I am in need of them to remember the truths of my past perceptions.
These past perceptions offer me comparison to the present perceptions I have today. Faulty thinking and skewed ideas emerge into the light, allowing me to assess, find the destructible pattern, and relinquish it, if need be.
The light also spies those moments where love was great and grand in my life, as well as moments of pure joy and fantastical memories that I cherish as precious and priceless.
These journals, past and present, tell my story. The burning of them may be the last request I make before I die, but for now they are an avenue of reflection and authenticity that I will be forever grateful for.