....I will put them here. Because really, where else would they go?
I already have boxes of journals (some of which I've had to get rid of - partly because of the sheer embarrassment and partly for the need of space) and don't feel like adding to that pile. I used to scribble down all my dark secrets, because I couldn't help myself. But then I realized that secrets change, and found myself screening my scribbles and it wasn't nearly as fun anymore. Still, once in a while, when I feel like I may burst with the misery, only remedied by a good write, I write until my wrists seize up, and then I immediately tear up the paper to shreds, feeling quite satisfied nonetheless.
I may have cursed myself. or maybe I was blessed, with this insatiable need to be fully alive and aware, as much to my ability as possible. I am learning a peace in spite of the fact that the process is long journey, but I am also wrestling with God, and I can tell that my tone is starting to get a little bit more indignant. Why? When? How? WHAT? And there is silence, except for the fact that there is this little munchkin of a plucky spirit living inside the city of my mind, standing in the tower, shouting that C'mon Christine, you know everything is going to be alright. I don't know how the spirit got there or why it has so much hope, but even in the darkest and most doomsday of moods, it's hard to ignore that annoyingly reasonable voice. Truth wins.
I can't, but I must, put into words all the things that are brewing in my mind. It's still weak and yet still so prone to beat up the heart, so I must take care to tease out the string of thoughts without shattering them into the black hole of my laziness. Since I am so very tired, I will stop now, and start up again another time with the same kind of resolve, I hope. A good cry, a bowl of watermelon, and snuggling up to my sleeping husband will have to do for now.
