What is keeping a journal but a need to talk with myself and make sense of things? As I sit here trying to figure out what to do with myself, what else to write, I am comforted by the scratching sound of the felt-tip pen as it moves across the page and back again. Perhaps it is the most comforting sound I know. It is the sound of my silent voice, the one that isn't heard in usual conversations.
Spoken words vanish, unless remembered, and then memory often fades. Things said/written here have the potential for some kind of permanence (even if only for this audience of one).
Maybe writing like this, without a title or format or specific intention, shares a kinship with dance—the brain choreographs and five fingers move in rapid obeisance.
(from journal entry dated June 11, 2011)
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