Journal Drafts

One reason I stopped writing here for so long was the advice given from a friend who let me know that any words to grace the page (or screen) would turn to dust in the eyes of a publisher. No one wants to print that which has already been read (unless, of course, you’re dead and famous and your copyright has expired). And, it’s true, so many calls for entry and submission guidelines make it clear that even words posted on a website or social media would be considered ‘previously published’. I shriveled at the thought that I could be shadowing my own future by letting people in between the pages of my journals. Because, who knows at one point in time which words might suddenly seem to have commercial appeal. And so I stopped.

Except, really, I didn’t. I took to the page for tech giants like Facebook and Instagram (now one in the same). I changed the pattern of my words to fit their own platforms and happily turned over my ideas, expressions and creations with no gains of my own besides a handful of new ‘followers’. Why? That’s what I’ve been asking myself lately. And that’s one reason why I am going to try to make a go of this journal once again. To share my words with people who care enough to seek them out, rather than stumbling upon them in an endless scroll.

If you’re here, then I am so grateful that you exist. That you care enough. Or that you’re curious enough. That you feel. Thank you. Thank you.

What you’ll read here are not words that have been fully refined and edited. They’re more of the raw bits and blobs that are scrawled into the pages of my physical diaries. I want to remember these words even if they’re not perfect. Because one day I may lose my memory. Lose myself. And this is how I can remember.

UNTITLED
(a journal entry)

thunderstorms roll in the distance

having all the power and roar

in the belly of black clouds

sounds like the rattling of steel

in a padded cell

storms passing through each and

every night

onto horizons I may never know

through fields and trees

and alleys of old

remembering ways

even where no path is visible

all to push– a wind, a bolt

lightning striking treetops

envious of their ability to touch the sky

never uprooting themselves from the ground

thunder quaking deep

into deep roots

all a storm yearns for is home