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thisnewdayI probably should've had a plan for the way I was going to do this. And then I should've stated it in the same unequivocal way that I did when I said that I wasn't going to do this. Write in this journal, that is.
But maybe it happened, this coming back to it, in the only way that it could. In the only honest way that it could. With the need to tell a story which seemed important to me regardless of how it might seem to others.
Because above all else, beyond its use or misuse or abuse as a so-called social-networking tool, a journal is primarily a means of personal expression.
That's what it was in the days before the means to make it a global electronic medium even existed. And that's what it needs to be, for me, again. Because there's a certain purity in that, a clarity of purpose that's missing other places in our lives. In my life.
So, maybe I'm back to kidding myself. About why I'm doing this. About who I'm doing it for. Maybe what I really need to do, instead of simply sitting down and writing and reflecting here again, is some of the things I considered during my perhaps too short hiatus.
Like finding a different journaling site. Or at least starting over, under another name on this one. Or, failing that, flushing my friends list as others note that they have periodically done. (Meaning, to be sure, flushing the flist, not the friends.)
But then there was this story, and the infinitely tiny sliver of personal insight it potentially contained, and there wasn't time for anything else. Because the story had to be written for the only honest reason that these things are ever written.
And so, for the sake of the story, I had to believe that it was reason enough. That if anything else were to happen to it, other than the writing of it, well, it just would.
And it couldn't be that I was simply settling for that. It had to be that, in that pure conceptual moment, the story itself was truly all that mattered.
Which, now that it's done, I can say that it was...
But maybe it happened, this coming back to it, in the only way that it could. In the only honest way that it could. With the need to tell a story which seemed important to me regardless of how it might seem to others.
Because above all else, beyond its use or misuse or abuse as a so-called social-networking tool, a journal is primarily a means of personal expression.
That's what it was in the days before the means to make it a global electronic medium even existed. And that's what it needs to be, for me, again. Because there's a certain purity in that, a clarity of purpose that's missing other places in our lives. In my life.
So, maybe I'm back to kidding myself. About why I'm doing this. About who I'm doing it for. Maybe what I really need to do, instead of simply sitting down and writing and reflecting here again, is some of the things I considered during my perhaps too short hiatus.
Like finding a different journaling site. Or at least starting over, under another name on this one. Or, failing that, flushing my friends list as others note that they have periodically done. (Meaning, to be sure, flushing the flist, not the friends.)
But then there was this story, and the infinitely tiny sliver of personal insight it potentially contained, and there wasn't time for anything else. Because the story had to be written for the only honest reason that these things are ever written.
And so, for the sake of the story, I had to believe that it was reason enough. That if anything else were to happen to it, other than the writing of it, well, it just would.
And it couldn't be that I was simply settling for that. It had to be that, in that pure conceptual moment, the story itself was truly all that mattered.
Which, now that it's done, I can say that it was...
