Why does this page exist?

Many years ago, I kept an online journal. I was inspired by other online journals I read. In high school I had aspirations to be a writer, more specifically a novelist and that was likely one of my motivations. Some people read, mostly other journalers.

I took some time to organize my thoughts before writing. I’d often reflect upon my activities of the day… How I felt at a particular moment and why I felt that way. Naturally, much of this involved my interactions with people and how some of those got (or didn’t get) resolved. I was surprised that I found it so therapeutic.

Many of the journals I read were written anonymously. Writers reasoned that they could write honestly and sometimes bluntly and as long as they didn’t name names; they rationalized that there was a wide enough gap. They were intentionally vague about their locations. They changed the names of everyone or used one initials instead of names. They were cryptic about locations and events… all for the freedom to write.

One such writer vented about the visit of her husband’s sibling. During one outing they had jotted down the name of a cocktail. Days later after the conclusion of that trip, her in-laws were curious about that drink so they did a quick web search… and found the journal. It was horrific. There was a lot of anger, some hurt, even betrayal. I believe the journal stopped shortly after that. I could empathize with both sides.

My journal was much more mundane and introspective; I felt that the likelihood of such a horrific collision was unlikely. Still, my journal was public and wrote about the events of my life and this inevitably included events that I shared with friends and family. Could I really be so glib and dismissive about their privacy? Had I been writing with the premise that their finding my journal was not merely a possibility, but an eventuality?

It was a compromise I couldn’t make, so I stopped writing. There was no mercurial confrontation. There was no historic meltdown. I lost no friends nor alienated any family. I simply found myself amending my writing. The very elements that fed my soul were lacking, so there was really no point in continuing. It died not with a bang, but a whimper.

Years later, as I rode on the bus one morning, I was listening to music in the bus on my headphones. I smiled to myself as one particular song triggered a memory. I pondered if I could write thoughtfully and passionately about that memory. Each subsequent note would bring vivid detail about a particular moment in my life, a moment that yearned to be shared. I found myself feeling the same way that I did when I last wrote, when I last composed the musings on my online journal.

However, there were a couple of instrumental differences. First, the writing on my journal was triggered by current events. They were based off places and conversations I had with people in my life. It was recent, and it spoke to what we both said and where we both were. That information is not uniquely mine to share to the whole world. Second, I wrote about those events as they were still occurring, while I was still processing them, and in some cases when the nerves were still raw.

It dawned on me that if I were to write about a distant memory, one triggered by music, it wasn’t bound by the same restrictions. I was no longer writing about the wound; I was writing about the scar. Moreover, the source of the memory was the music, not my interaction with a particular person. I removed the two biggest obstacles.

The idea was born. I could write about music and my personal experiences and memories, and I could write about them expressively and passionately. The only thing left is to pick a name, which admittedly took time to find. What name could appropriately express writing journal entries from music? Until one day, I saw it.  It was an album by Dream Theater by the name of Scenes from a Memory. With a slight play on words, my page became Songs from a Memory. I’ve yet to listen to that album, though it is in my collection. It may a concept album that speaks of a horrific tragedy, but at least my version has become my home on the web.

All that said, I’m neither a writer or a musician. I studied writing and music enough to graduate with a degree in engineering, but that’s about the extent of it. You’ll get the perspective of someone who is more of a layperson on both of these fronts. My experiences are self-taught and personal, not professional nor even educated. A humble thank you for walking with me for part of my journey; I shall enjoy the company.