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Keeping Notes

In letters to myself I have seen a child become a woman and a woman grieve. Fearfully, I look at those journal entries and think, oh, I am such a mess. So I don't read those notes to myself much.

What a selfish, self centered writer I am. I write for myself. Arranging words and paragraphs like a word scientist, experimenting with algebraic intentions. Hoping to touch an emotion in someone else, as if to say, "Are you there?". Or, "Did that make you think?"

It is a safe distance of communicating, writing is.

Even with letters to myself. Woe, do I suffer as I read them and the echoes reverberate in my empty soul. No, I don't like letters to myself. I much rather would read letters of others, that I may find some sort of connection with another. A safe distance of communicating, writing is.

In letters to myself, I must admit that I am so scarred and limited. Jesus, that's not the way I planned to be. I wanted to do so much.

I should write them in French and I think maybe that I shall. At least I will be learning something of lasting value and I will be hitting two birds with one stone. I write. I learn.

In letters to myself, I remind me to read the latest on the liberal agenda and I don't get around to it because politics are such a let down. In letters to myself, I expose my wound and I cannot bear to look upon it.

When I was a child, I wrote poetry and a teacher loved it. She encouraged me and she inspired me. Then everything went to chaos.

In letters to myself I see the emotional rut I am in and I know that I must go on beyond it. But how?

How do I find joy in letters to myself, when I see all of the imperfections and they haunt me with sad eyes of concern?

In letters to myself, I will transcend the pain and I will conquer the fears and I will learn more. The salutation and the body of the text, not so important as is the meaning of the letter. I've got to remember that, from now on, when I write letters to myself.

Within I see a great oasis coming and I will linger there in the great healing and I will read more letters to myself. With more open eyes and more emotional scope. I will allow myself to make mistakes and I will love the imperfect I that I am.

What wondrous and glorious escape I will make in letters to myself, when I am alone and the trees turn and the cold wind of old age comes. And as dust is to wind, it will be insignificant in the great scheme of things. At least I will know that I existed and I finally took a chance, in letters to myself.

Learn more about this author, G E Barr.
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