I have been inspired by another who writes journal entries about his thoughts while riding the subway. His words are raw, sharp, and will not pull punches just for the sake of it. Every time I read one of his entries I think I have grown, and become more substantial.
I usually write poetry, short stories, fiction and non-fiction, but I have never been as candid as he is, pouring the inner most of his thoughts upon the screen. Why not? I don’t know. Is it because I am afraid of what I will find under the layers of introspection? Is it because I am worried what others will think of those layers revealed? That I am afraid of letting my tarnished edges belie my illusions of projected perfectionism?
I am about to embark on an experiment; a series of journal entries, which will sometimes be more like confessions. I will be honest, both with myself and with my readers, no matter if it pains me to do so. I am doing this for growth, and when are growing pains ever painless?
I am engaging in this experiment on the same day that I start my new running regime. In the past I have used my time running as meditations for prose, and I will be doing this again. Only this time I will be sharing all that comes to mind, the good, the bad and the ugly. I hope that they, the running, subjects of meditations and the writing will entwine and become something worthy of reading, or if nothing more will keep me on the asphalt.