I remember a friend of mine once told me it didn't matter what I wrote, but just to start writing, pour it out on paper. Every day just write something. I have kept journals of my life and times, ups and downs, of births and of deaths. I have felt betrayed by my written words by those I thought I loved at one point in my life. I have been stripped bare and emotionless from a paper trail. People twist and distort your written words and emotional death can result. I know this firsthand, so I haven't written in years because of it, I mean really written about anything that mattered. I wonder once I pass on from this world to the unknown, who would care? Who would care about my thoughts, my feelings, my heart at that point in my life? Who would care where I was, or who I was to someone else.
Perhaps only in our mind we think our importance in this world, when in fact, others hold no value of us. This past weekend I was at an outdoor flea market place with a friend of mine. I happened upon a table which held someone's family history and momentos of her life. I thought how sad those end up here in this place. I felt embarrassed for her, a wife, mother, grandmother, just like me, whose cherished and handmade items were separated or lost by her loved ones. I bet she never thought her unclothed soul would lie naked and exposed for the world to see. I felt a connection of a soul to a soul, as I picked up the pieces of her life that laid there and sifted through her thoughts. Surely, she was important to someone, loved by someone.
I wondered if perhaps I should go home and burn it all unless it had great personal significance; why bother to write it down if no one reads it or cares. If your relationship with your loved ones is not what it should be, why would one think that they would want to read it. We all value our lives, no matter how insignificant we become. Strange to me, I had never thought that my own paper trail could end up hurting me much less coming back to haunt me, but instead I thought perhaps leaving written words and journals of my life and times might be of importance to those in my life after my passing, a memento of sorts, but now I question the validity of that. With the passing of people dear to me, like my mother and father, and a friend, I know that all we have are moments and what we leave in the hearts of others, not on paper. I never envisioned they could end up lying on a table, here in a little town somewhere, meaningless to passerbys.
till next time.
