So often lately I've found myself questioning this journal. Whether it continues to serve any purpose at all. Whether it's causing any harm. Whether it's outlived its usefulness as my voice, to say those things that I could not or would not say out loud.
I feel like I could write pages and pages, if only I were the sole reader. Or if only I'd been smarter, back when I started, and kept myself anonymous.
There are so many things that have occupied my mind and my heart. I've been destroyed all over again. I'm struggling to be reborn all over again. I'm infinitely happy and infinitely sad at the same time. And yet, I've barely brushed the surface here. Sometimes I think that even those light touches upon the truth are too much.
Other times, other times I get a little pissed. This is supposed to be my outlet, not anyone else's entertainment. I should write the whole truth, and if people don't like it, they can stop reading.
But I don't feel like that very often these days. This journal isn't about me, not like it used to be, and I know it. I'm unimportant, and I know it. Irrelevant, and I know it.
I really feel like I'm writing on inertia these days. Writing because it's what I've always done. Or writing because it's expected of me. Or writing to convince people that I'm okay, somewhat normal. But what I'm not doing is writing because I want to write or because I need to write. That want and that need, they definitely exist, but to satisfy them I'd have to stop censoring myself. And I just can't bring myself to do that.
The truth risks too much. By censoring myself I only risk my own sanity.