Brian's Poetry Journal
June 16 2022
I do not journal.
There is no log of daily events
no compendium of wisdom.
Memory is left
to its own devices.
And memory, we all know, is mischievous,
an insidious shape-shifter.
I remember
the prim little girl
who was a diligent diarist.
She kept a series of tidy red books
with covers that locked
where all her dreams and thoughts went.
As if they were worthy of posterity.
As if that rudimentary key
would keep them secret.
A completist,
she was obsessive
about never missing a day.
Who knows where they've gone,
and how embarrassed she might be
to read them now.
As I often feel
interrogating my memories
and trying to make sense.
Because there is no written log
of my life.
In high school, they lied.
This will go down in your permanent record, they threatened
and we took them at their word.
But there is no such thing.
No one cares;
the future
is indifferent to us.
If only we knew
how easy it would have been
to get away with it.
Although the act of writing itself
is therapeutic.
Or should I say fun.
Even if it's never shared
or even re-read.
Playing with words
when we're all grown-up
and are supposed to have left behind
such childish things.
Serious adults,
when it's seen as unbecoming
to play
just for the fun of it.
I wrote this after reading David Brooks regular weekly piece in the Atlantic (link to follow). This line in particular struck me: Your journal should focus in particular on things in the past for which you are grateful—for example, kindnesses and love from others—so you don’t forget these things.(https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2022/06/how-to-change-past-perception-positive-memories/661240/)
What arrested me was the presumption that naturally, we are all keeping journals; that we're all highly introspective people committed to continuous self-improvement. When really, who keeps a journal? How many ever did? Are diaries even a thing these days?
The odd thing is, this blog is called a “journal”. And, in a way, it amounts to a kind of diary. But even then, posterity ends when Google's servers get fried, or the power fails. So, as the poem says — and at the risk of easy cliche — all this writing really is about the journey and not the destination.
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