even an open book doesn't tell the whole story

I've been keeping a personal journal for more than twenty years. Every so many years I think I may throw them in a camp fire, but that would be like throwing myself in a camp fire too...so I haven't...yet. The thing that fascinates me is the why...why did I start keeping a journal in my 30's and why did I continue with it. There was a year that I said fuck it and didn't keep a journal (excuse me while I go into the basement and find out the exact year) (it was 1995) and now I'm wondering what I was doing instead of keeping a journal. Maybe I was being a cross between Sarah Palin and Buddha where I would jot things down on my hand and then realize the next day after my bath that nothing is permanent. But actually I rather like this nag of writing. It's an obligation like marriage or bringing kids into the world. For me, it has become a commitment. Nag was a selfish word to use...wasn't it? My muse is a whore I can't help it. She prods me in the middle of the night and says things like...your wife is sound asleep, do you want to get up and write. And I say no thank you, I'll write in the morning. And she says....sure you will, but I'll bet that you'll forget about what I'm going to tell you....and on and on she goes...and of course I forgot most of the stuff by the morning...but at least I got to get some sleep. But in the morning as I rubbed my eyes I wondered what it was that I ate before I went to bed that gave me such a restless night. And then I realized that my muse was a salami and onion sandwich and a couple of beers.