It’s nearing midnight and I’m wide awake. I know that’s not saying much. Midnight used to be when the party got started. Now when I’m awake at midnight I know it’s going to be a long, restless night.
I’ve been taking to journaling again. Usually when I can’t sleep I work on a chapter of a book I’m writing or visit an unfinished poem. Sometimes I read, although that often keeps me awake for several hours longer because I can’t put a good book down. So I decided to try journaling again.
Journaling is like blogging only on a one-on-one basis. No one reads my journal but probably a lot of people read my blog. I really am honest in my blog posts, no bullshit, keep it real. I try to come up with interesting topics or stories to share but there’s no doubt I’m guarded knowing it’s going to be out in the public domain. And although juicy gossip and sexy themes draw a larger audience, I like to keep my personal life my own so yes, blogging is limited, at least for me.
My journal sits beside my bed or in the drawer beside my bed. Therein lies my truest thoughts, my darkest secrets, my longings and losses, what I marvel at, what I dare not say aloud.
We should live in truth but there are things we each carry around, like a benign lump or an unruly grey hair that won’t go away. They are our nemesis and our kindred spirit. They are part of who we are. These things are not baggage. They are not a burden. They are our truth and only we understand them.