First and foremost; I write for myself.
Second and twicemost.
Third and thricemost; I write for the void.
Journal writing started at 16. It began, and relieved much anxiety. It organized any spin and scattered tendencies. Organizing chaos to it’s best ability and encouraging myself to know myself a little better. The first two months we’re written vigilantly, after that- there were no barricades. The diaries were very much hidden. A cautionary sentence usually adorned the first page. Read at own digression. If you were in my life, you were in my diary; in many, if not all the shades of grey.
A few months ago, all the diaries, journals, reflections were placed in a fire.
Nine years worth of pages, peeling and smoldering in dancing flames. White Rabbit, White Rabbit– as the words turned smoke; the wind shoveling them graciously back into the eyes. Re-visiting a history of tears once shed.
Since this event, I haven’t written in a diary. Ideas and concepts are jotted in various forms, on various pages, ready for exploration. But no rants, or personal reflections. Everything seems to be very much within the public eye now. My art has become the journal, and instead of it being hidden under the bed, it is on display for all to see. I’m unsure if this is a natural progression of self analysis, or merely something that has just happened.
Having a single person read or view; is enough to fuel the fire, dust embers and continue the burn long into the void.