"I Have Kept A Journal For Years... "(Part Two)

A Cycle of Poems My soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself. I decided therefore to be myself. Samuel Beckett (3) I have kept a journal for years... I have kept a journal for tears. Fortunately, tears dry quickly, and a splash of water clears the red traces and restores composure. What do you think? Should a journal record all the bitter truths, or should it be an upbeat account of the best of times? Wherein lies your peculiar art: in fabrication or in truth-telling? Could you see yourself doing both? Why not, a writer chooses his battles and his ideals... What memory do I hold most tightly? Is it the photo that preserves her luminous smile? Or is it the time at the Conservatory when she lost all restraint, and I watched her, bereft and crying, half-hidden by a wall of humid ferns? Or is it the summer day I darkened when I confessed to my sister the whole story, the whole truth? Just last week I suddenly remembered pressuring Shirley to admit her grief over a white lie, and then being unable to console her. I know somewhere in my journal these shames reside. No subterfuge can absolve me, or make me forget. This is me and the man I pretend to be. "Hey, you, yes, you, we have to talk... "