Ignorance is bliss in the form of a journal (or two or three or eleventy hundred)

Ever since I was a young child, I’ve written.  Stories.  Daily entry journals.  Memoirs (seriously, when I was in middle school… what did I have to write a memoir about?).  Before the dawn of home computers, this was all done by hand.  In journals.  Even at age seven I remember pouring over and deliberating over the kind of journal that would hold my secrets and my thoughts.  Sometimes I chose journals with a little key.  Sometimes it was a plain old composition journal.  They could be oversized or pocket-size. 

I bought them obsessively, and for a long time, I would fill them up with my dribble, my drama, and my creative thoughts.  But then I discovered something.  About the time I went to college, I fell in love with the keyboard.  I could type fast, and was able to capture more of my thoughts (before they were replaced with other ones).  But I still found myself buying journals.  Sketch books.  Diaries.  Planners.  Paper, paper, paper.  I still had a soft spot in my heart for these physical thought collectors, but fewer and fewer of them were being filled.  There would always be one in my bag (just in case inspiration struck) but more often than not, they were left mostly empty.  I would always try to begin one, but then find myself at a road block.

It was as if  that single drop of ink that had graced the first page rendered it useless.  soiled.  obsolete.  I couldn’t get rid of it however, because (as I realized just last night) I considered them a piece of art.

Last night I came to this ridiculous realization as I was blabbing at my husband about something benign.  I continue to buy journals because I see them as pieces of art (if I don’t touch them with a pen).  So I can’t throw them away.  I can’t write in them (besides, I still prefer the keyboard as unromantic as that is).  And I don’t have any more space to collect them.  So now, I have a problem. 

Everything was fine when I didn’t know why I kept buying journals and not writing in them.  I just kept blindly buying them.  But now, as a responsible adult, who cringes at unnecessary clutter (it’s all unnecessary), now I have to make a choice.  Display my new-found “art” as I see it, or remove it.

Can I just go back to my ignorance and denial?!  Please?!


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