Trivial immorality

I journaled for the first time today than I truly have all year, no, longer than that. For months.

True journaling. The kind you pour all your thoughts out. 

When you burden the paper with your troubles, and bless it for freeing your mind.

I forgot how beautiful it felt. I don't want to ever forget again.

I think paper is the best ear, and ink the best voice. 

Anne Frank has been on my mind as of late, not her story, so much. But the telling of her story. How could she possibly know her journal, her daily pennings could become such a wildly popular book?  Surely she looked at the scratchings she made in that dear white and red checked book, and thought, "Oh, was Torheit. Dies könnte nie populär geworden"* the very same way I look at my pink journal with it's slightly pink tinged paper with the darling grey lines, and think, "This is junk, who would ever want to read this?"  

True, Anne was refurbashing her journal to be more readable in case it ever would be, and I'm not.

But the fact remains.

I should pen daily, I don't even have to talk about my day, but perhaps a funny thought, or something pressing on my heart.

because I just never know.

 “There is, of course, always the personal satisfaction of writing down one's experiences so they may be saved, caught and pinned under glass, hoarded against the winter of forgetfulness. Time has been cheated a little, at least in one's own life, and a personal, trivial immortality of an old self assured"

-anne morrow lindbergh

 *"Oh, what folly. This could never become popular." She did speak german, you know....

Cheerio me ol' cream crackers,

The pennist. 

p.s
While journaling, I was listenining to Les Miserables 'One Day More'.

"One day more!
Another day, another destiny.
This never-ending road to Calvary"

I doubt Pandora could have chosen a better song to play for me.