dear diary
I completed another journal this morning.
Every page.
Filled with nothing and everything.
I used to take a really long time to finish writing in a journal.
Sometimes months or even years would go by between entries.
And then I would feel like I needed to catch up. Like, to who? So funny.
The best part about a journal is that it’s never really meant to be read. Only written. Actually, I don’t think it physically can be read because of my terrible handwriting. A mixed match mess of half print half script with inconsistent loops and scribbles. Not to mention the spelling- that was never my strong point. That’s why god invented spell check.
The point is, there is no audience. No one to critique or review it. It’s quite liberating, really.
It doesn’t even need to be legible, as I have proven time and time again.
As infrequent as I used to write, I still always had a journal.
I would find myself reaching for it when I would be at extremes in lie. When I would be overwhelmed or feeling lost. Or when life was great and I wanted to document every detail. Not really to be read again but by writing it down, maybe it would be that much more etched into my memory.
I almost always keep a detailed journal while traveling. To document the adventure but also because when I’m traveling I feel most myself. Creative and alive and full of reflection and discovery. It makes for good writing, or good journaling at least.
Then, there are the days that seem like I don’t know myself at all. Like my spirit went wondering off and I am left feeling alone and confused, like, who is this and how did she get here. Usually at high stress times in my life. Or maybe when I fucked up and I’m replaying how terrible I handled a situation, confrontation or conversation.
Somehow though, even if it’s through angry hot tears and snot, I can almost always, by the end of the page, find what I was searching for.
Me.
Right there. Write there. On the page, with no audience, no spell check, comes the truth. It’s quite useful really. Putting pen to paper and letting a stream of consciousness flow through you. Washing away fear and anxiety, by looking right at it. Cut through the bullshit and really get to what is holding you back, getting in your way, annoying you or straight up pissing you the F off. It’s great. And at times really surprising. And then I see clearer. Lighter. Brighter.
For the last few years I’ve been writing almost everyday. Not strictly or in any rigid way but simply because I enjoy it. Plus it makes me feel better about the buying of journal habit that comes along with journaling. Something about those blank pages. Just waiting to be filled with questions, discoveries, angst, breakthroughs, the very evolution of a life.
And there is something intrinsic in knowing that I am the author. I am in charge of my own story, how it is told and who know, maybe even what happens next. Either way, it’s mine. Mix matched and misspelled, but- mine.
