Tuesday, March 23, 2010

New Beginnings

I was never able to keep a diary. Of the 15+ journals I own, not one has been consistently updated with the details of day to day life. There's a large black linen one, a brown suede one, a brown striped one, some with pictures, others with inspiring sayings; each perfect for chronicling the big events, the heartaches, the minutia, and yet none of them have more than 20 pages of writing. There's even a small pink one with teddy bears, complete with a padlock slot, featuring a few pages of childish writing. "Dear Diary, My mom is going to have a baby. The End."
My favorite journal is a faded blue. Its cover is warped and worn; the pages inside, yellowed with age, are covered with the elegant script of my grandmother. Using prose, poetry, and funny quotes, she talks about college, family, and dreams. Reading her poems, I hear a familiar voice, detect a soothing, recognizable rhythm...it is my own poetry, echoing from the stack of unused, uncompleted journals. Mine also tell of college, of love, and dreams. The melody is different, but the rhythm is the same. This is why I love to write...its in my blood.

1 comment:

  1. Very cool blog!! I am the same way with journals...I have so many beautiful little books full of bright white pages. I think its easier to blog and you always know where to find it again:) Great to peek into your life!