Week 2: Charred Remains

Charred Remains

I wouldn't go as far as calling myself a hoarder, but I definitely have the hardest time throwing away things with sentimental value. And I give sentimental value to most things.

For example, every paper I've ever written from sixth grade until now is compiled in various folders at home under my desk. I keep old notebooks (in case my WiFi runs out when I'm in desperate need to remember the stages or mitosis or the seventh amendment), and I have to be forced by my mom into getting rid of clothes that are too small.

So, with that being said, I really don't think I could ever burn my journal or diary. 

Once you light that fire, it's permanent and destructive. All that's left are charred remains, and I don't think I can deal with that.

I think everyone writes with the intention of an audience reading their work, just as one of the articles mentioned. Personally, I don't have one specific person in mind when I write. Rather, it depends on the subject I'm journalling about.

If I'm writing about a romantic interest, then I imagine him reading my words, which transforms how I write. It may lead me to addressing him as "you" in my diary, and it may make me omit a few embarrassing details.

Or maybe I'll imagine my best friend's reaction as I'm writing about that same romantic interest. If this was the case, I'd probably refer to him in third person and actually write about a lot of details.

It really just depends on the day and what I'm writing about and who I would want to read it.

With that being said, just because I write as if someone else is reading my words, that doesn't necessarily mean I want that person to actually read my diary.

Diaries are personal and vulnerable and raw. After writing my truest and deepest feelings, I would be humiliated to find out someone saw (or rather, read) that side of me. While I wouldn't want the pages containing my soul spilled out to be burned into nothing but charred remains, I don't want them read by people I know.

If a stranger read my diary, I wouldn't care as much. And if my family and friends read my diary after I died, I wouldn't care either. Heck, after I die, they can burn them, read them, publish them... I don't really care what they do with them from there.

But, while I'm alive, I don't want anyone reading about my raw, vulnerable experiences.

While I think it's bold of that author to burn forty years worth of journals, I would feel heartbroken at the loss of something so meaningful to me. Or like how she read bits and pieces of them before she threw them into the fire? That alone would make me stop in my tracks. After reading entries from thirty years before, I couldn't part from it.

Let alone permanently destroy it in a fire.

Even if I never read my journals ever again, I don't think I could ever get rid of them. She made a great analogy about life being a game of chutes and ladders and how the real importance is the journey of ups and downs, rather than the actual destination. But, I think the struggle in your journey is important for people to recognize.

Even though you might not flaunt your hardships, having the written proof that you were going through hell and got through it is something too sentimental to ever destroy (in my opinion, at least). 

So, while I may never be able to erase my history into nothing but charred remains, kudos to her for letting go and having the strength to carry through.