I’ve been journaling in different diaries my whole life. Ever since I was very young and my entries were only a couple sentences long, written in large letters. I’ve journaled through hard times and through better times, all on paper, read only by my husband. The satisfaction of having a piece of me written on paper is so perfect. I’m able to express my thoughts more clearly on paper and share things that most wouldn’t be interested enough to ask about. But who is there to read it?
Everyone says that journaling should be for you. To release stress, anxiety, and to help you focus and grow. But sometimes that lingering thought floats around when I close the cover of my journal. Will I be remembered? If I die, would anyone read this? Would anything be compelling enough or interesting enough for anyone to share with another person? Would my husband read it? My kids? Would my grand-kids want it read to them? Would this paper even last that long? There are so many easy ways these pages could be destroyed. A glass of water could spill, and all the ink could run together. The pages could rip and fall out. All the writing that is me, could disappear forever. What then have I left? My work, my art, the memory of me in the minds of others, but what is the truest impression of me, but the words of my thoughts?
I fully believe each person to ever exist is uniquely created and that, that person will never again live as a perfect copy in anyone. How special and precious is each person! If only it were a practice over the whole world that we record our genuine, authentic thoughts and bare the vulnerabilities within ourselves. What profit might another person find in reading and learning about you? But the world is too busy and too consumed with themselves. Will I even be remembered?