Sprekensy English?

I have kept some sort of journal or notebook or Moleskin since I first learned to spell. From time to time I revisited old journal entries and reacquainted myself with the frozen specimen of my former, less developed self.

With endearment, I turn to the sloppy, awkward letters I scrawled in writing my name for the first time. There is nothing more than my name. Just my name. And yet, so much exists between the spaces of a little girl's first written creed of identity. 

I humor myself, unintentionally, as the swirl and swing of my pen next engages in the telling of sleepovers, fashion and boys. Though unwieldy was the affair, popular was the game.

then came the era of the bold. the battles i was constrained to fight at home were shouldered with the preoccupation of varsity football game chants, school musicals, choir tours, prom date nights.

I next find the pages strewn with a quick handed grappling between prospects and fumbling through the guesswork of what to be. The answer would come, if not swiftly, with emphatic power. And once given, so began the subliminal exhaustion of involvement and study. 

I just finished my chronicles of europe, cramming the pages beyond the point of closure — passport punches, ticket stubs, photographs, items of memoriam — remnants of one girl's momentary utopia bulging between the covers.

And now I write for a very different reason than any of the reasons before. A new passion is whirling from within. I write to trace the patterns of thought, to dissect the mechanics of the mind, prodding at what it means to participate in the human experience. Until now, I could never have known how the power of the word would become congruent with breathing. And it is very likely that these pages, these different fonts of my life may be all I leave behind. 

@ 2010 by Rachel Lowry. All Rights Reserved.

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