Some of my readers may know that I have two other journals. I mean, besides this one which exists in two places but which I only count as one. A somewhat fewer number may know, or strongly suspect, where those other journals are.
One anonymous journal is devoted to a love which was lost, the other to, well to a something that never got off the ground. They're both pretty much dormant now. Tombstones marking thoughts and feelings that might otherwise have never safely left my head. Words which needed an anonymous outlet lest they burst unbidden and unwelcome and unappreciated into my life and onto this more public journal.
Now, I'm thinking of starting another journal. About something else. Something new. Something bad.
It's too soon, I'm told. Wait and see what happens, I'm advised.
Sound counsel, certainly. But perhaps not appropriate for me, right here and right now.
See, I've learned a lot about myself over the past couple of years. And one particular thing that I've learned, one nugget of knowledge that has been beaten into my head over and over and over and over, is that I cannot stop myself from expressing myself when I'm sad.
Something bad happens, I need to complain about it.
Something good doesn't happen, I must lament its lack.
Something terrible might happen a year and a half from now, I am compelled to worry and obsess and be haunted by that possibility. And write about it. At length.
These thoughts and feelings and words will find an escape. It will happen.
The only remaining question, the only thing I can still somewhat control, is the form which that escape will take.
So I'm thinking of starting another secret journal.
Maybe you'll stumble across me there. Feel free to say hello, but don't expect an acknowledgement.