Life took me from my dreams, or, I forgot them. Either way, I stopped writing. Long ago, I wrote all the time. I wrote poems mostly. Nothing great, just a few words weaved together to express what was on my mind. There wasn’t a story to tell. There were no characters.
Or were there?
Truthfully, I can’t remember. When I stopped writing, I lost my memory of the words I had penned. There was a little green journal where I kept everything. It was a gift I carried to France with me. I was supposed to document my experiences there, but I wrote poems instead. I lost the book. Somewhere, I hope in my garage, is that little green journal. It might be full of garbage, but it might also have a treasure. That’s the fun of lost memories: their secrets are the fantastic part.
I’m feeling adventurous today, so I’m going to venture into the garage and look for my past. I’ll update this post when I find my words again…
…Found it! After just ten minutes of searching, I discovered my cache deep in the bottom of a bucket. I also found some old postcards from Paris. I’ll save them for another post. At the moment I’m writing this, I haven’t opened the journal. It’s been over fifteen years since I peeked inside. Let’s discover this together.
No dust on the cover—probably because the book has been hidden so well. The first entry is from April 12, 1993. It’s a poem about serving others. Short and to the point. The next entry is about Halloween. It’s somewhat cool, especially since I was living in a place that celebrates Halloween differently than the U.S. Nothing special, yet.
I’m amazed that the written words flood back to me as I read the poems. They weren’t lost, just buried deep inside. This is an emotional experience. Wow.
I didn’t write in order. Apparently, I had taken some of my earlier works with me to France, because some of the dates are before I graduated high school. These are cool to read. I’m going to share one in a moment.
14 Janvier, 1995. “I write to find my secrets.”
That's the last date I've written in the book. There's a few notes in French after that. I must have given the journal to people to read before leaving the country, because they've written me short letters in the pages. Then there's nothing. The rest of the journal is blank. Here's the poem I promised. It's titled only with a date.
November 5, 1992
Thunder shakes the earth
Beneath my feet
The blackened sky
Night awakes my soul
While, as I sleep
My feet stay planted,
My thoughts fly
I am the inner soul of everyone
Could be I resemble day
I come and go with no regard
Imagination is my name
Travel far into the heavens
Into ocean, into sea
Leave the common grounds
Let me in, I’ll set you free
Thanks for sharing this experience with me. I’ve noticed a theme to my writing then that matches the style of my books today. That makes me happy. I’m also grateful that my words weren’t lost. Sixteen years after the last entry, I'm rediscovering myself.