Dear Journal

Personal journals fascinate me. At the end of the day we retreat to our tiny, poorly locked books and profess our most intimate moments and deepest thoughts. This I understand. Who better to trust with our secrets than ourselves? But why write them down? Are we simply yearning for someone to find our treasure trove of confessions and finally understand us?

Yeah. We are. Of course we are.

It's a lonely place out there. Holding it in is exhausting. Journals are the working man's--and by working man, I mean teenager--therapist. It's Fruedian free association and self-induced catharsis. I get it.

But there's a catch. We are complicated and strange creatures. We lie to ourselves. Constantly. What we put on the page is anybody's guess. Days are long. A lot happens. What will we choose to distill into an entry? What makes the cut? Will it be the ugly hour of jealousy and weakness or the five seconds of joy on a kid's face when his mom told him he could be Batman for Halloween?  We are in the unique position of writing our history book. We decide what's important, what stays. You can paint your life any color you want.

Venting I get. Airing of grievances and whatnot. But when it comes to my journal, I have plenty negative to say. It's on the tip of my fingers begging to be let off the leash. Though I'm not entirely sure why, I keep it close to the chest.

Perhaps it's because I dwell on the notion that we choose who we are. A remnant from my teenage years, like a stubborn cough, it won't let up. On my worst days, when I want to paint the world black is when I reach hardest for optimism. Mine is broken and ugly, but it hasn't left me yet. Wanting to view the world through rose colored glasses is naive and somewhat disingenuous, but I don't care. It is the kind of man I want to be. And while I'm not him yet, I keep drawing pictures of him in my journal to remind me what he looks like.