My journal is for me to write,
For me to read, reflect, revise.
For you, I’ll write a memoir.
For you to dig, digest, despise.
For me, I’ll keep the journal, thanks.
For me, that is, for only me.
My journal is religion.
It’s ritualistic, rigorous.
An act of faith, submissive faith,
That writing it will heal today.
That writing it will clarify,
And keep me grounded.
Right on track.
It takes, on faith, some causal links
That normally I would not take:
Recording brings in Discipline.
With Discipline, it’s Meaningful.
With Meaning comes Maturity.
Maturity makes one Reflect.
Reflection genders Gratitude.
And Gratitude dispels Regret.
This means my journal’s quite a mess.
It’s full of things I do and don’t.
And full of things I feel and don’t.
It’s pick-me-ups and put-me-downs,
Hurrays, but also whining sounds.
Reminders writ repeatedly.
In free hand quite illegibly.
A peek into a state of mind
Too wounded for you to unwind.
You want anecdotes, gossip tales,
Unburdened by the tedium.
My journal will not give you that.
It has the parts, but not the sum.
For you, I’ll write a memoir:
The more readable medium.
Until then, let my journal be.
Or else, your hair, my bubblegum.
Minakhi Misra 