You can go home again, but sometimes the new owners have painted the house a different color, and they cut down your climbing tree to expand the driveway.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a health post. Although I’m still worried about the heart issues, I don’t think i’m gonna croak any time soon.
Ever since college, I’ve been keeping a journal. That’s pretty common, a lot of people do. Not many people keep it in the bathroom.
Yes, I have a bathroom journal. No, I do not log my shit in there. I just find that the bathroom is a good place to write. I was originally inspired by my friends in college, who kept one. It was a communal book, and they all wrote in it. Sometimes they had conversations through it, other times just random entries about their lives. I did the same with my roommates, and anyone that graced the porcelain god in my apartment was encouraged to do the same. What i ended up with was a record of mine and my friends lives from college on.
We finished the first book my last year in college (it’s in my bookcase), and I started a second, thicker book. Since I lived alone for most of my adult life, it was mostly me that wrote in it. These days it can be weeks or months between entries. But i love it. Sometimes I’ll look back and see snapshots of my life, remembering all that happened, and where I came from.
And so we come to the end.
I am on my last pages of the journal. By the end of the month, it will be filled. Of course I’ll start another one, but I’ve been using this one for 15 years. 15 years of my life, my loves, my failures, the roller coaster of my crazy life, now archived in my bookcase. Maybe some day I’ll take it out to read again, but I don’t do that with the first book. Maybe when I die, someone will find the books and think “why is this guy writing while he shits?” I’ll have no answer (cause I’ll be dead).
The journal is dead. Long live the journal.