Poems from the red journal

Between 2006 and 2008 I managed to keep a journal that I wrote in on a semi-regular basis. I purchased it from an art gallery's gift shop - this beautiful red leather journal. I decorated its pages with images from magazines and things I had collected in the world (lots of leafs and coffee-shop napkins). And, of course, I filled it with my words. I was in my early to mid-twenties during this time and still had absolutely no clue about myself; but I was so honest about not knowing myself. Almost 20 years later and I still don't know myself, but now I'm much more edited. 

That red journal was with me through some really challenging times - lost and new friendships, a broken, mended and re-broken heart - and I would pour all of myself into it. Reading through it now, so many years later, and I realise what I miss most about my youth was how unafraid I was of my own words. Those pages are filled with an honesty I haven't felt in myself for such a long, long time. It is so very clearly unedited, raw emotion that wasn't concerned with saying the 'wrong thing' or 'being too mean'. I just let my feelings and my words flow through me onto the page. 

I've not had that in any form since the end of the journal. I feel like I've been chasing that feeling, that freedom, ever since. 

I finished that journal with about 10 blank pages at the end of it, but it was the right time to do so, as I moved to England a few short weeks later, and wanted to start my new life with a new journal. But nothing ever stuck like that journal did. 

I tried to recreate the magic of that journal with so many others - it's why there are piles of empty notebooks in my shelves. None of them have felt right... some just didn't feel comfortable, and others were too 'pretty' and I worried about 'sullying' them with my tragic words. 

Over the past couple of days I've been going through and typing up all of the poetry that I wrote in it. Most of it is terrible, of course, but there are some that I'm still quite proud of. Some that take me straight back to the moments I wrote them. It always felt like the words would find me and flutter inside me until I could get them on paper. And they found me often. I was always writing. Always. 

But then the words stopped coming. It was like they couldn't find me anymore. Or didn't want to. I don't know when it happened, but I found myself editing everything before I could even get it on the page. I still do it now. I don't know what I'm so afraid of... part of it is that perfectionism I expect of myself, I suppose. But holy hell do I wish I could get over that already. Yes, Cinder, good job trying to be so right about something that you can't make anything at all - that's working out reeeeeally well for you, isn't it?

Anyway, finding and going through that journal again has stirred up a lot of things. Probably doesn't help that I also read Credence by Penelope Douglas this weekend, which did weird things to my brain. (Great book, by the way! Though do read all the content warnings before diving in, it's got some heavy shit in there.) 

I'll leave you with this journal entry that, funnily enough, still has relevance to my life today (just for a different person). :) 

xo