Recently I was going through a few journals that I’ve kept stacked up in a shelf. Some are used, some unused. Several of them had poems that I’d just begun, sketches that I never went back to, stories and thoughts, all half finished.
But as I saw them, I remembered the emotions that were involved when I wrote them.
Some were when I was a confused teenager sitting through a tedious Math class. Next to the derivative of a function was the plot of an Indiana Jones inspired adventure with haphazard pencil drawings.
Some were random thoughts from moments of deep sadness, loss, and even little achievements and moments of joy. Some were funny thoughts that crossed my mind and some didn’t even sound like me. Each sketch or drawing came from the state of mind I was in at that moment.
It was fascinating to see that all of these were coarse. They were bare. So real. I wonder why I never went back to them?
This little visit to the depths of my closet and into those journals and notebooks got me thinking that perhaps the most honest creations are the ones that are coarse, unpublished, those scribblings on the sides of notebooks, those sketches that try to capture what you’re feeling, those hidden unfinished stories.
We polish, sanitize, edit, delete and are still afraid to hit publish. There’s often more truth in them than the ones we put out there.
To tell our story it may not be enough just to know how to write or to have immense love for words. We also need to be brave enough to tell it in its truest form.
This post is part of BlogchatterA2Z