Seems unromantic to journal online... at least the unpublished kind. Soft kisses, near misses, ugly dreams, high hopes-- buzzing away in some dry, stuffy, fluorescent-lit linoleum 0101101001011100 purgatory until you log back on. What if you forget your password? If you lost an analog journal, at least some unsuspecting stranger could find it underneath a table at a coffee shop and spend an hour or two secretly commiserating, then wondering for the rest of their lives if they will ever meet you or if they already know you or what they would say if they did ever meet you. Or at least a loved one could find it on your bedside table after your untimely rock climbing death and sob loudly while poring over your identity struggles and inability to find a proper bathroom rug to match that sensible mauve shower curtain.
There's a redwood tree in California that I've never seen, yet there it rests--waiting patiently for me to run my hands along its deep ridges and mossy scabs. My clothes hang suspended in the closet, uncaring if I wear them. There is a dress that was once worn by a woman who is dead. I never knew her but her niece dropped off eight trash bags of clothes at the Goodwill donation center three years ago. I paid $6.99 for it. That's a pretty good deal.
My amygdala is sleeping. It has grown weary of connecting place and time and purpose and custom. I don't blame it. I hope I am not forced to find a wormhole. I hear the feedback is a killer.