The Angry Journal

This is written as if the journal itself had a voice looking up at a child who had never before written a thing.

Dear Aaron,

What sad words you write.

How could the first thing you've ever written be so dark? How could it be so lonely? How could an 8-year-old not know how amazing he is? I am but a blank page, your veritable servant, why not use me to write something better, like the forts you make, the worlds you explore, the spirit you have? Your dark page cannot see the future, but if I could, I would comfort you with the amazing person you'll become, the great soul that will never break. Yes, I wish I could see the future for you, dear Aaron, but for now I am the canvas for everything that is not.

True, you are scared. True, your dad just left. True, all you have is Danny. And if it were not bad enough, you just pulled the fire alarm at the apartment and people are going absolutely crazy. "Who did it? Who needs to be spanked?" You did it, Aaron, you know you did; to feel something. Anything. It was exhilarating, a word you don't even know yet. You did it to piss off mom. You did it to piss of everyone else. Yes. It was worth it. It wasn't a revolt against mom directly, but a revolt against it all. There was no happiness for years. Yes. THAT was worth pulling the alarm. The firemen came and you were placed in front of them. And they gave you a real taste of reality, and you fled to your room: to me, dear Aaron, the journal between your mattress.

I was yanked out and the words were awkward and dark. I was glad, at least, that you had me to vent upon.

It was after this moment that you decided that outside was best. You decided to "make a world out in the woods of my own," and you did it. Outside was not inside, and that suited you just fine. Inside was uncertain, and all of the things a kid might not like, and indeed, I could see your brain working out the next years of your life, that, everywhere you'll go, everywhere you'll move, you were going to make a safe place in the wood. Yes. It all began there, and I, your journal truly wishes I could contain the forts you would make, and the swords and shields you would craft, the neighborhood you would invite; the little girl Rachel that was your crush. All of the good things.

But it was not to be for some time. For what seemed like eternity you only used me for anger. You wrote it down and scarcely returned to it. Who wants to read angry, dark stuff anyway? I was your outlet, and I am honored to be at least that, even if it means filling me up with awful things and going to sleep afterward. I knew I would be with you forever, and that was enough for me.