On writing journal.

Started writing journal some time in last September. Almost a year has passed since then. There is so much in the journal now. So much. Most of it won’t make sense to anyone who reads. So much is in there, and none of it would make any sense to anyone. Think about it. So many pages. So many words. So many paragraphs all written by one man in innumerable moods, innumerable positions, innumerable seasons. Looking at it gives me a strange sense of happiness. Surely I cannot go through reading it all again myself unless exclusively for the purpose of editing it someday. I never read my own stuff unless it is to edit. My lines are for the world to soak in. I write and then I move on and write some more.

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