I used to have a journal on freeopendiary.com. This was in high school--my friends all had them, and we would read each others' posts and write pithy, scathing remarks or post endless surveys, summaries of your life, demographic collations of facts that somehow were only half as interesting to read as to do yourself (and not that interesting to do, either).
Unfortunately, I realized that what I (and my friends) were really doing was whining about how awful and stupid we thought our lives and teachers were. I deleted my freeopendiary a long time ago, and vowed never to engage in such ridiculous pursuits. I even held out on Facebook until my senior year, waiting and waiting and then, relentlessly sucked in by its siren call of instant stalking capabilities...I was lost.
But, I told myself, this new thing, this "Twitter" thing and the blog thing--that I will never do. (Still no Twitter. I resist!) But blog...(even the word looks ridiculous)...well...
Taking a poetry class my freshman year plucked a chord that I couldn't quite express but knew I had a desire to share (even though I had self-prescribed it as a sort of secret therapy, my curiosity was piqued). And since that class, I have had random urgings--the way the ground smells after it rains, my favorite parts of spring when leaves are a misty green haze on thunderstorm-blackened tree trunks, the surge of joy when you step outside and take a deep breath (even here, in the heart of a midwestern city) and know that you can feel the cold air seeping in through your aveoli into your bloodstream and shimmering pearlescent to fingertips and toes--
but I have not written them down. Something about writing them down on paper makes me feel like a rite is necessary: the proper pen, a special notebook, something consecrated. And then my thoughts feel unworthy of ceremony, the word in French is désacrilisées (-es for pensées, feminine, plural), impure.
So maybe this is better, after all.