Today I got a new journal. It’s fresh. It has that new journal smell and I lift it to my face and inhale it deeply. It smells of pulp, possibilities and fear.
I put the journal down and look at it suspiciously. I don’t do journal’s lightly. I fill them to capacity and often beyond. I will paste pages on pages and add pull outs and flaps. They become part of my being on a molecular level. I feel enormous responsibility for them, and they for me.
This new journal and I aren’t talking yet. That will take time. We need to get to know each other before I can add things that will sink into its skin and help me understand why I am writing them there. It’s not an easy process. It’s like tattooing a person. It’s there forever.
I keep all my journals. I have the old ones in a trunk. The first one must have used a multi pack of glue sticks and I am the reason glitter is a protected species. Some of the pages are stiff and hard to turn. Others have stuck together, forming a bond merging into foreverness. I envy those ones. I don’t disturb them as I turn.
When I read the one I just retired – unable to stick anything else into it, there is no corner to scribble a word in – I read angst and helplessness and pretence. I was writing everything that should have been spoken aloud. This journal is an emotional wreck. It’s the emo of the journal collection. The other journals shy away from it so I put it on its own shelf. It’s introverted and anti-social and they talk about it in low whispers. It knows they are talking about it.
The new journal looks around and gives me a terrified look. Don’t do that to me. I’m new and fresh and I was bound with hope. Trees were not massacred so I could end up on the Eeyore shelf.
I can’t guarantee it’s going to be an easy journey for the new journal. It will be hard work. There will be times that sad emotions seep into its pages. I offer a rare stick of glitter glue as a peace offering but we aren’t there yet and it refuses to open. There is a plan, I tell the journal and I like plans. I can stick to plans as long as they don’t change and twist and throw me off course.
Here is the deal new journal. It’s you and me for the next six months. I’ll be honest but I’ll do better than poor emo journal who is currently lying flat, legs out over the edge of the shelf, exhausted. I google journal therapy and make an appointment for my journal to speak to an encyclopedia.