On January 2, 2012, I began writing short notes in my journal. I wrote about my law school woes, my boy troubles, my love and appreciation for my family... all of my little, insignificant day-to-day everythings. I just wrote... emptily, but with resolve.
Something happened last week, though. I'm not sure what it was or what brought it about, but suddenly I could not NOT write in my journal. After spending long hours at school, I'd hurry home to the solace of my open notebook. The words spewed from me as if every single thought and feeling that I'd kept bottled up was ready to be born.
I looked at the entries this afternoon. Scanned them for some type of theme. Searched them for understanding. They are seventeen in total. From January 29th until today.
What I found on the pages were little notes to myself. Short. Sweet. Sensual. They are love letters. I think there was a short period of time -- perhaps in those six months of not writing -- when I forgot to take care of me. I, the master of the self check-in, failed to check-in.
"February 6th --- I walked past you in the mirror yesterday and beamed at the mere thought that you, a creature so fragile, could stand so firm in your pursuit to love me unconditionally. Others have not been so willing. With each sunrise you begin to feel more and more like my own flesh. You keep everything in me from spilling onto people and subways and casebooks and pavements and linoleum floors. I loved you even when I didn’t want to, when I was still learning to... and I love you still."
I wrote seventeen unique love letters to myself... or maybe they were to God.
Or maybe it's all the same really.
