Of all the multitasking I may accomplish in one day, a running chronicle is the least likely item ever found on my to do list.
Arrogance may well be the reason; however, the truthful reason is sleep is a valuable commodity.
Regardless how monumental any one event may seem in life at the moment, allotting time to journal it for posterity (or infamy) falls into the abyss of perhaps tomorrow. After all, how could I forget?
Rarely do I forget. That is not to say I never forget, for that would be a lie. I do forget. On most occasions, I promptly file events and people under Don’t give a fuck. You see, it has an auto dump feature to ensure nothing of little consequence takes up real estate in the vast halls of excruciating minutiae.
After those things, comes the events and people I would gladly forget. These are the ones who star in the Friday Follies and who create random moments when I wonder what keeps their skulls convex. In the last ten years, I have said WTF more times than I care to admit.
Next are the occasions where I need to practice forgiveness. I need to remember the lesson and forget the pain. For each of those moments, I falter to commit the offenses to paper (or virtual paper) because it means holding onto the pain. I once read something I wrote in the midst of pain. It is one of the only things I have written I have not reread since to see if it could stand improvement.
Every once in a while, it is I who is doing the hurting. Self-inflicted pain is something I have learned to not do as often. I remember the lesson; I certainly do not want to remember the rest.
So, I have to wrestle with the idea writing more than I already do is to be considered therapeutic. Incidentally, I find the idea implausible. Much of my life has been chronicled in various and sundry venues. Some has been erased, some burned, some floats in cyber space dust, some died a hard drive death.
Amongst the millions of words, the lessons shine through even when the pain has been downplayed, obliquely referenced or foregone entirely.
To whomever would read a diary after I can no longer convey the information, my victories would seem boastful and my defeats lamenting. I wish to be remembered for neither.
Instead, I will continue to create memories for all who share my sphere, teach all who may wish to listen and savor the goodness in the quiet times many spend scrawling in journals.
In keeping with the theme, here is my letter:
My time is better spent giggling, cuddling and living. Very few will wonder what I did on a random Saturday, so I will spare everyone henceforth the gory details of the mundane happenstance which transpires in fast forward. If I ever do create a memoir, it will be clear it comes from my memory rather than your hallowed pages.
Meanwhile, do you mind if I just draw on your pages?
This year I participated in the Month of Letters. I was not entirely successful, as I found the challenge after it had already begun.
For an M3 twist, I am writing a letter a day for the month of May.
Do you keep a diary or journal? Have you ever let anyone read it/them? Have you ever read someone’s journal or diary? Can you write a letter a day for a month?
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