The first journal I opened was an old staple bound moleskin, graph lined. I used to write everything with a pen and nib, dipped in ink; its impossible to read, but so romantic. So I'm just stumbling through this illegible poetic mess and the story I've found just slowly untangles itself in front of me and what I'm left with is this recounting, a fragment of a memory from senior year of high school. I didn't even know I had any journals from high school left. The reason I keep journals is to keep these memories, because my mind is a sieve, but I rarely look back on them. This will seem insignificant, but it nearly shocked me - I can't believe this is a piece of a life I lived. If you had interrogated me I wouldn't have been able to produce it, but here it is:
Last night we
stayed up late and we
lounged on each other's necks
and wrapped our legs around
each other without worrying about
attraction
and when the pizza came we ate
and traded mushrooms for olives
and read books to each other
and fell asleep to a
movie on the television
when we woke up our backs ached
and my makeup ran under
my eyes
we peed with the door open
even though some of us are boys
and some of us are girls
and the boys didn't realize that
we need to make up our faces in the morning
this morning we
realized we felt like
teenagers
not just lonely people or
adults in a small house
or secluded or
casual acquaintances
we were thrown
2:11
2.25.007
