Freewrite -- Palimpsest

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I stumbled upon all of my old journals in the attic. It wasn’t much of an attic, really. Not like one of those mysterious, large, gaping ones with sloped ceilings and trunks and boxes of treasures. It was just a 4-foot-tall crawl space above the ceiling in the master bedroom where we put our holiday decorations, old trophies and memorabilia, and clothing that we couldn’t bring ourselves to get rid of, but never wore. And, apparently, there were my journals. I hadn't thought about them for years...

It was strange. I would have expected to feel more excitement at the discovery. But I wasn’t. I was embarrassed by some of my foibles, which were salted and peppered within those pages. I also felt a chilly fog hover over the journals, as though ALL of them were now tainted, even though only one of them contained material that would change my life forever. It was as if the last one I had written in changed the meaning of all the ones that had been written before it. Almost like it was saying, "If only you had known. If only..." And each of the previous journals were missing the pages that KNEW. These earlier, happier pages were now under a spell of sorrow simply for being absent of the wisdom they required to avoid the trajedy that was soon to occur.

There were 13 journals in all--different sizes and designs, starting from age 11 to 32 (5 years prior, when I had abruptly stopped writing altogether). I picked up each book and held it to my nose, breathed in the soft, leather bound covers with straps holding the palimpsest shut.

I gently ran my fingers over the hard-bound books with smooth, ruled paper and unique designs on the covers. Each one seemed to reflect what I had been feeling at the time I had written them. Each one spanned a year or two. Each one felt like home. Some were funny, others were sweet, others nostalgic and dreamy. Still others I preferred not to read and am considering throwing out entirely. Nothing can be gained from their pages but the missteps that would determine my future for me. I now know where I went wrong. I can't very well read those pages without the very strong desire to take a bottle of whilte-out, spill it over all the strongest pages, and rewrite the whole thing, steering myself in a new direction.

Where was I then, when I needed myself. I am here now. And I am 10 years too late.

I will never read these journals again. They remind me of my innocence and sweetness, when the world was still kind. But, I think perhaps I have my posterity to think about. Perhaps they can read my pages and get a sense of where I went wrong, so they do not have to repeat my mistakes.

Therefore, I wouldn’t trade these treasures for ten times their weight in gold.