My older Ink Era journals are a great source of personal amusement. I used to be very dramatic.
I wrote in great detail about things that were going on for me that I felt certain would remain as important as they day they were written. I was pretty sure writing them down was even kind of silly because it was a rich emotional history, so cleverly worded and only mine, how could I forget it? I am pretty sure what made me forge ahead was a sense of duty to my biographer.
I was actually writing for people I had not met (ghosts too, but that is another thing). From the age of fourteen to about twenty one I felt like I was going to be pretty famous and my journal would be a rich goldmine for anyone researching me.
Although I decided to remain humble about it, I could not shake the idea that I was crafting a crucial tool for future archivists who would chuckle and make notes and add things to their research timeline. I was pretty sure a future team of psychologists, soothsayers and philosophers would weave the ends into something hilarious and poignant while I was still alive and lounging with a glass of wine, soaking up the sunset in a moment of great calm, in a gently rocking chair, on a porch jutting out of the mountainside, in early autumn, with my tremendously long supple legs peeking out of my silk robe.
I expected to be adored in my lifetime. I expected to have “hot legs”. Ya know?
No comments:
Post a Comment