I have only ever called my journal ‘my journal’, or ‘my diary’. Despite the fact that it has changed repeatedly, after being used up, buried in a box and forgotten about for several years. It is replaced by another, only to be…
…used up, buried in another box, and forgotten about for several years.
They all had the same name, and I guess at the end of the day, they are all one and the same. Each makes the organic whole, the story which has an ending, somewhere; the ending which I have yet to write; the story of my life.
My journal lives in the present tense, the now, the time bearing fruit with each letter I type, or letter I write, in black staedtler ink. Sometimes it tells a tale of a place or a state of mind, rather than the goings on exterior to my being. I find if I am shrouded in the wild yet systematical din of an overcrowded city I become so immersed in and aware of my anonymity that my inner self shouts to me, rants and raves about all it is I feel, think and long for.
Outside myself, I am a small fish in a big sea.
On the inside, I am a stallion once held captive, released onto a vast rolling landscape, released to run free. The plains are my paper, I am the ink. I gallop, canter, shout out my words and with all the might and passion in my soul, kick up the dirt and show no signs of retreat.
From the veins on my legs my physical speaks of strain, yet I can’t slow down. The passion and will is too strong, I must press on… the landscape might run out and I want nothing more but to feel every part of it before it is gone.
Life is my landscape,
Paper is my landscape,
Pen is me.
My best friend, my journal,
My savior, that who redeems,
The one I am accountable to,
The one who tells it how it really is.
I think of the Anzacs,
The men in the trenches, with a window of opportunity,
To write a few words,
In their journal.
Their best friend,
The one and only ear,
The one and only understanding,
There seemed to be, at that time, in that place.
Between them maybe all they had was a look in the eye,
A glance, a moment, from someone…anyone…
Just to understand; to acknowledge.
And for those who wrote it down,
Their journal saw them through.
Some of these men made it home, journal in hand.
Often the journal came home alone.
A soldier’s story, kept alive, by pen and paper, by being that unconditional ear.
As I see it now, at the days end, it’s our inner being who is that unconditional ear; that understanding, the key to our future and story teller of our past.
It seems it’s a matter of listening to what it is we tell ourselves, over and over again.
The words, how they repeat; what they long for, how they speak.
What will my life story say? What has it said so far?
I ponder my next entry…
I ponder my landscape.