Sunday, February 1, 2015

Keep Out

*Author’s note: I am well aware that this composition is not good. I also don’t care.

Hilarious, Journal. I am starting to think that you have a sense of humour. It’s a warped one, to be sure, but apparently it is there.

Today you ask me to be personal and authentic – authentic with discretion, which is in itself almost a contradiction at terms – and then you want the account to be of the previous few days, described in more than 300 but less than 500 words.


Exactly how authentic is it when I go through an episode of depression that robs me of all will to do anything whatsoever? Few things are more impersonal than a person temporarily without feelings. Trust me; everybody who doesn’t display false pity likes to tell me so.

Or how discretionary is it when I say exactly what is on my mind unspoken, telling a journal – or anyone, for that matter – of all of the angry and cruel thoughts of my heart that I leave locked inside of me for a reason?

To put this in other terms: this hasn’t been a good week.

There is a reason that sometimes I don’t rendezvous with you, Journal. If I understood that a journal is to be read by me and then to cease to exist, I might be honest in using a pen to stroke in every textured thought of offense that grates on the nerves more painfully than shark skin. But the problem is, these words are meeting the eyes of someone else. (Or if that’s not true, as is often the case, nobody knows the difference; thus nobody can ever call me a liar for saying that.) Right now someone’s optic nerves are teaching them about what a terrible non-person I am, and this is before I even reveal any specific detail of what causes the slimy molasses-tar to course through my veins these days.

And above all, how much merit does it have if none of this is even the complete truth, and I simply refuse to share my joys and passions and happy thoughts with those who have no business poking around in my head?

So I ask, Journal, if you would like a clearer and kinder entry about my recent life, please defer your question for another day.

But in the meantime, I hope that everyone is content with this slop.

With love,
Or more accurately, with the lack thereof,

- “Me”


  1. I'm glad I got the opportunity to read this entry. I've also written journal entries like this, and it's raw, it's real, it's the indifferent life. The indifferent life is one everyone needs to see, so they can understand what the beast looks like. Thank you.

  2. This is rock solid. I felt the same way, writing a journal for an audience--it's weird; I don't want people to know EVERYTHING. I wonder if that's how we are with our actual journals, if we hold back on honesty on what we don't want ourselves to know.

    But anyway, great job. I love your voice: gritty, self-aware, rooted in detail.