Why I Don’t Keep A Journal
Why I Don’t Keep A Journal
I do not keep a journal.
I do not record my daily thoughts, or,
the mindless daily activities of others.
The simple truth is that contemporary life
offers so little challenge.
Whatever I want to read, or hear, or taste
can be offered up
at the touch of a button;
for a small fee
the world is at my command:
I can sit in my chair and get fat.
Sex, like pizza, can be delivered in thirty minutes,
and consumed in five,
and is as much overpriced.
I have no friends who call on me,
to invigorate my mind,
to pass the time;
not one to share a symphony
or a card game.
The last person to knock on my door
was looking for a neighbor,
and insisted I was lying when I said so.
The ties that bind me to this life
are strong, deep rooted –
lessons in responsibility.
Tradition has it that my life
will be better than my fathers.
HAH! Now I understand
why he was so unhappy,
why he drank himself
to death.
He missed it all – he believed
the lessons in responsibility.
I have a new goal in my life:
To live in a tropical land –
no, not paradise.
But to survive;
to grow my own food, and
barter what I don’t consume,
to build a house from
whatever nature provides,
to sail a small boat
far enough to spear fresh fish,
to learn the intense pain and
the immense pleasure of living –
more than the humdrum existence
of boring, predictable, contemporary life.
And, to write in a journal every day.
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