The Journalers

The closeness you share with someone whose journal you read regularly is a very deep one. In high school I read and shared my own journal with at least four different people. At that age, at that time we shared things with each other we might not ever share now. We expressed rawness and vulnerability devoid of the ability to understand that one day these things would no longer seem so immediate, so urgent or so precious in quite the same way. The sharing of these things solidified our bond at a time when were perhaps not yet fully aware of all the things that lay ahead which would shape us, change us forever and drive a wedge between us which is inevitable and as it should be when people grow and evolve.

One day, maybe many years from now, maybe we’ll share our journals again if we still have them. Mine are in about two or so large boxes collecting dust in Francis’ basement. Occasionally when I’m upstate at his house I will journey down there in the early morning, sit in the subterranean air and pour randomly over whatever is closest at hand. Sometimes it’s like reading a novel about someone else’s life, and often it makes me laugh out loud. Sometimes I come upon something profoundly compelling and other times I just can’t deal but those moments have lessened with time. And when I leave those boxes of journals I leave that time behind with a vague lingering of nostalgia and thankfulness for the way in which journal keeping allows me to see the connection between events in my life.