Before Facebook, smart phone games, instant messaging and the infinite lure of YouTube and Wikipedia, I was an occasional journal writer. I used my own hand to scrawl upon the page words, idioms and symbols that I alone gleaned meaning from. Back in those olden days second party recipients weren't necessary for the exercise to hold value. And I wasn't the only one! Chronicled self reflection was a fairly common enterprise, in many a quiet, darkened bedroom. Some preferred to doodle and scribble in the early morning, others at dusk and mostly in silence. Now it seems strange to recall that there was no need for newly downloaded music to assist the ruminative process. To journal was to conjure an inner world that happily sat at odds with the outer world, and moreover, stared down the barrel at busy opinionated content laden interference.
Is journalling a lost art? Is it now only possible to write for a perceived, even if not real, reader?
Once upon a time, many many moons ago, people privately took pen to paper, but alas nobody wrote about this phenomena and nobody took photos.
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