I write because I can’t help myself. I write because if I didn’t, my mind would surely begin to overflow and I would internally combust. Some might call this an outlet, I call it codependency.
I’m not sure what it is about writing or why I picked up a journal in the first place, but from as early as four years old, I’ve had a (no pun intended) drawn out relationship with the act of journaling. Without a second thought, I married the notebook and haven’t looked back—we’re in it for the long haul.
When I flip through old journals—some of them humble composition books and some of them covered in pink sequins and fur—I see my life through rainbow tinted glasses. Notebooks at nine are straightforward and confident. Entries at eighteen are questioning and misunderstood. I chuckle at how my accounts of life have changed from Eggo waffles to existentialism all within the span of 21 years.
That being said, I would still journal about Eggo waffles if I felt the need. But I suppose today’s Eggo-equivalent would look something like this:
“It’s day god-knows-what at attempting to be a morning person. I tried making latte art but once again, it’s “latte fart” and looks like a blob. At least I got up to see the sunrise, at least there’s that.”
That’s the beauty of journaling though, it captures your mindset during mundane moments that would otherwise slip through the cracks and into nowhere-land.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read old journal entries and physically reacted to memories I’d long forgotten. But there they are, scribbled in obnoxiously slanted middle school handwriting. Entries like these are why I journal—they hold onto the past so you don’t have to. They’re there whenever you want or need them, but they serve as your life’s keeper so you can let go and keep moving forward.
So, over the years I’ve poured and poured into my pages—goals for the future, embarrassing moments, and odd thoughts that only happen past midnight. I know when I need to write because I’ll start to feel my thoughts bubble their way to the surface like a pot that’s been left on the stove too long. I could always lower the flame, but I would never want to dim my light; so instead I just make room for the new.
Oftentimes I don’t know what I’m going to say until I say it… er, write it. But lined pages will always be there to listen and ultimately to lean on—hence the codependency.