It's no secret that there are at least two sides to every story. Others have claimed there are three, or even four. Regardless, there is never one, solitary story. Only a fool would think this is the case.
This journal, however, is only one story. Or one side. And that's the way it should be. I'm not chronicling objective historical facts here. If I were, there wouldn't be a space for something as subjective as "current mood." Rather, there would be a timeline, or a bulleted list, or something more sterile.
Electronically, I have documented pages and pages of the here and now, little snippets of time, place, and emotion. Emotion, that fickle mistress, often drifts before "post entry" can even be clicked. It's a wonder, sometimes, why we continue to attempt to capture these smackerals of time-sensitive reason. It's a bigger wonder still why we read them, knowing that once the page is turned, the frame of mind has, too.
I suppose it's easy to think, judging on displayed pixels, that my life has become encompassed by material possessions and exchanged words. It's likely also easy to think, reading back weeks or months, that my life is full of longing, regret, bitterness, and anger. Perhaps it's a fault of mine that reality is not properly documented. Perhaps a 24-hour live feed from my brain waves would be more accurate (but a lot more tedious to read, yes?).
There are at least two sides to every story, and these pages cannot even properly be construed as one aforementioned side. There is a side here, burrowed in the recesses of my grey matter, but there's a lifetime of effort involved in its telling, in its recovery.
~//~
It's kind of nice to write using my brain again, if only for a little while.
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