That’s right, it’s a verb.
I wanted to momentarily skip the deep, melodramatic stuff in order to write something a bit more lighthearted- something which I am much more excited about.
Finishing my first journal. Ever.
I have to say, I am proud of myself. There have been a few times when I have started writing, only to forget about it entirely.
Not that I was writing in it daily, oh no. I never gave myself the ultimatum of daily or even weekly entries, partially because I don’t always have the time, and mostly because I had no reason to waste paper if it was without a purpose to write.
I was gifted this journal for my birthday at the beginning of February, 2016. A month later, in the beginning of March, I started using it as an agenda. It’s funny looking back. It’s a bunch of vocab lists and checklists and tests about material that is meaningless to me now.
About month later, I wrote my first serious entry. Call me a nerd, but it was a book. More specifically, me gushing about Jane Eyre, by Emily Bronte. I simply had nobody to talk about it with, so I discussed it with myself on the last page of the diary, and went backwards. I wrote about two more books, Life as we knew it, and When you reach me (probably the only and best two sci-fi books I have ever read, and I totally recommend them, based on these gushing entries).
Then, I started writing a story. A dystopian, which I have still not finished, despite having currently amassed some 68,000 words. I did some preliminary planning, and it’s still a mess, and I swear I have a point at the end of this.
This past summer, I had a lot of free time on my hands, and wrote a lot more. I gushed about TV shows, among other things. I made a couple of theories, I’ll admit. But it all felt pretty important to me, because I had nobody else to talk to about these things. It was an outlet.
After that summer, the purpose changed again. I’ve written much less, mostly rants, and poems and lyrics to songs I’m never gonna finish.
I wrote more when I had more free time, such as a trip this past week. I wrote about what my friends and I talked about, adding more meaning to what we had discussed than what I had been able to add in the moment.
And suddenly, I had 3 pages left. Three pages left.
It shocked me, I hadn’t even registered how much I had written. Every single line of every single page, filled with my thoughts, recorded forever.
Sorta kinda mind blowing, if you ask me. Thoughts are usually such flighty things. They flit in and out of our heads within moments. We remember some of them, but not in the same way.
To conclude this (before I end up writing for the entire night), I figured out why I started writing in the first place.
It’s an outlet. The paper, where I’ve inked all the things that I can’t talk to someone about. Not filler, all of the boring details of my life. Things that I want to remember. Important thoughts. Thoughts sometimes left unfinished, but most importantly, started. I don’t know why spilling my thoughts through the pen into the page is so soothing to me, but it just is.
I don’t know if anyone will understand this post. It probably makes no sense.
All I can say is, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
If you can, maybe try it. Get a journal. Write in it. It can’t hurt.
I don’t think spending hours, or whatever amount of time, being alone and writing down my thoughts and dreams and poems and unfinished songs and book reviews and rants and theories and general gushing… is broken.
But maybe I’m just crazy.
Retrospective author’s note: of course I made it melodramatic… despite my initial promise. I might just be too happy being all alone with my thoughts… 😛
Also, Shawn Mendez is awesome. Currently listening ~