I started a journal with this title in 1997, dated May 30. I was in my first year as a medical resident in Montreal, and I started writing in third person.
“The night was dark and the sound of rain hitting the roof and flowing down the drain pipes enter the room. She was lying on her bed, seemingly engrossed in a novel. She looked at briefly, laid the book, open on its pages and reached over her side table to light a candle with a match. The smell of the burning match reminded her instantly of a campfire and she sighted and sat up against her headboard in a happy state of reverie. Memories of past holidays, school backpacking trips, and summer camp tumbled through her mind with a smile coming over her face as one happy moment led to another’s memory.”
Some awkward phrasing, giving rise to an image of a happy nostalgic young woman with a room about to flood! My cursive writing was still quite readable, and I stroked through words in error with an average of two lines, something my medical training would teach me only to use one.
“970604
It’s the strangest thing, but I can write things on paper that I hesitate to tell my closest friends in person, and yet I would have no problem my friends or complete stranger reading the exact same words. Although it’s not intuitive, I think part of it [sic] because when a person sits down to read some thing, it means that they have opened theirself [sic] at least enough to make the effort to settle down with a book. And although many would agree with me about it, for an introvert like me who grew up devouring books, I think the medium of print is one of the most intimate, private ways of expression that I have ever known.”
VERSES
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