I used to write. A lot. Like....obsessively. I had journals in high school that I wrote 5 or 6 pages front and back in every day. In fact, I had several journals. Different subject matter. With respect to tradition, I still purchase Journals from time to time. However, I have given way to "time" and seem to have lost the commitment level it takes set aside the appropriate time it takes to Journal properly. So I have piles of empty journals that I refuse to throw away, give away, or use- apparently.
This is a journal of sorts. A web journal. However, I don't particularly like to refer to it as that, only because it doesn't allow for my own hand-writing, and well, I don't care if anyone reads it. This is contrary with a real book-style journal. No one is allowed.
There is a luxury here though. I do not need to worry about messing up my words. I can fix any errors with a quick tap of the backspace. Also, it doesn't take as long to type as it does to write. So my 'journaling' is finished in a fraction of the time. And while this is good in many ways, I'm certain it contributes to my inability to properly journal.
What's my point here? Well, I guess its simple. My hand written journals always feel more genuine than my typed journal. Not that I'm lying here... its just more "secret"... so in an attempt to be more vulnerable here... A confession:
I am on a quest to match Shakespeare in the number of Sonnets he wrote.
Because I'm utterly inept when it comes to Roman Numerals. I will simply number my sonnet's with spelled out Numbers.
And to lay bare my soul, here is sonnet "One"
A glance across the many years untold
With thickened skins and battered minds undue
Behold! Embers of love kept burning bold
Igniting sparks and flames love never knew.
Two hands across the void of space and time
Unearthing all the deep unsettled past
Like flitting doves with feathers intertwined
Evolving passion, drunk with lust at last.
In Dreams it seemed the time stood ever still
And space replete where lips and flesh embraced
Stretched out just like a valley between hills
Then pulled in tight and ecstasy replaced
Erotic thoughts and memories thereof
Drip with beads of sweet, insatiable love
This is a journal of sorts. A web journal. However, I don't particularly like to refer to it as that, only because it doesn't allow for my own hand-writing, and well, I don't care if anyone reads it. This is contrary with a real book-style journal. No one is allowed.
There is a luxury here though. I do not need to worry about messing up my words. I can fix any errors with a quick tap of the backspace. Also, it doesn't take as long to type as it does to write. So my 'journaling' is finished in a fraction of the time. And while this is good in many ways, I'm certain it contributes to my inability to properly journal.
What's my point here? Well, I guess its simple. My hand written journals always feel more genuine than my typed journal. Not that I'm lying here... its just more "secret"... so in an attempt to be more vulnerable here... A confession:
I am on a quest to match Shakespeare in the number of Sonnets he wrote.
Because I'm utterly inept when it comes to Roman Numerals. I will simply number my sonnet's with spelled out Numbers.
And to lay bare my soul, here is sonnet "One"
A glance across the many years untold
With thickened skins and battered minds undue
Behold! Embers of love kept burning bold
Igniting sparks and flames love never knew.
Two hands across the void of space and time
Unearthing all the deep unsettled past
Like flitting doves with feathers intertwined
Evolving passion, drunk with lust at last.
In Dreams it seemed the time stood ever still
And space replete where lips and flesh embraced
Stretched out just like a valley between hills
Then pulled in tight and ecstasy replaced
Erotic thoughts and memories thereof
Drip with beads of sweet, insatiable love
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