To Diaries and Journals

My first one had a cover of pink roses, padded and shiny, about half the size of a regular book.

And it had a key that went to the little lock that clicked when I shut it.

The very idea that I could lock my writing away wasn't exactly freeing, but it did create the idea that perhaps maybe something I write could be dangerous.

I would write at night, a small lamp clipped to my bed headboard. The diary began to take on a personality, someone who waited for me, who listened, who didn't judge but always knew better. I admit, though I had no reason to, I lied. Maybe I just wanted to see what it would be like to live a life I wasn’t living. I got in so much trouble at school today. I am planning to run away. As an adult, I would call it fiction.

But I also told the truth. Years later, my poetry professor would tell me to write something that scares me. I was very familiar with writing towards fear. By then, I was older and kept spiral notebooks in my desk drawer. Unlocked. 

Those fears and dreams and angers roaming around the pages of our juvenilia don’t want to be released. Writers, scientists, and artists die and their notebooks are discovered in their basement boxes. A distant relative thinks they may be of interest and sends them out. It seems freeing, but not everything written needs to see the light of day. 

So if you have them, burn them. 

Feel the heat on your fingers. 

Again.