Before this week, I never wrote something in a journal that I later used. Rarely have I had time to comb through my subconscious by reading over my journals, so I gave up on them years ago as a waste of time.
I left my poetry class this week armed with a new kind of journaling. I began a new journal, and my daily entry is limited to one sentence or one line. I love it, and I want to share the first four days wth you.
I’ve reached an equilibrium between tomorrow’s dream and hell, and it’s not contentment.
A truth that stains my mirror: I spend a lot of time being a good man, but I’d run to hell for a kiss.
He’d never seen an angel, but everybody knew how to kill one.
There’s sex, and then there’s Jennifer’s pink nails raking the skin off my thighs.
So far, I’ve taken a lot from this exercise. December 17 provided me with an interesting opening for a story that has been maturing in my mind, and I feel a seed planted by the entry on the 18th sprouting roots.
I’ll post again when either idea coalesces on paper. Be well and happy holidays.