I love journals. I always have. I’ve collected notebooks and diaries and journals ever since I was little. I’ll write and write and write. Just one thing; I never finish a notebook. I will have more than one at all times, and my writing is spread out amongst them. Currently I have three, and a spiral seems to be on its way to becoming a fourth member of that not-so-exclusive club. Let me introduce you, dear Reader, to those members.
This journal came from Barnes and Noble. It has blank pages (non lined). It mostly contains bad penmanship and silly, stupid doodles. Oh, and lots of stickers.
This journal was made by a friend. She offered me this one, or another one (which might have been fish, but I don’t remember). This has lined pages, and contains angry, hurt ranting.
This I got at Books-A-Million (which the west coast doesn’t have, and it makes me sad. For those who don’t know, it’s a giant book store that sells really great fan merch and has a cute little cafe. Very much like Barnes and Noble). It has lined pages. What drew me to it was its soft cover and simplicity. Which I then proceeded to write lyrics on. This used to contain ranting and fears and everything under the sun. I believe I wrote 14 pages in one day in this. It was my confidant in the last month in CT before I moved to WA. I say used to because in a fit of angry shame, I tore out many of the pages and burned them. It was quite therapeutic. Though I don’t recommend doing that because now I want to see how I felt then and compare it to the now. Currently, it still has some poems left over from last year, and this past year. And a drawing from an ex-girlfriend of mine.
Why am I writing about this? Well, Reader, I am writing about this because I tried writing in my journals. I tried to flip to a page and pour my thoughts out. But all I could think about was how I yearned to be typing them, instead of writing them. Don’t get me wrong, writing them out and reading them back to myself on paper is still as amazing and helpful to me as blogging is. I just go in and out of moods. Sometimes I can’t blog and I can only write, sometimes I can’t write and I can only blog, and sometimes words just feel wrong. I’m sure you can tell which mood I’m in currently (with the three or so posts I’ve done in the last week after not updating for months).
When I was cleaning the other day, I found the lyric covered journal. I had been looking for it for awhile (though not very hard). It was incredibly trippy to go back and read what I had written there. The past hit me hard, and I had to sit down. For once, I let my emotions wash over me, instead of packing them up in a box and pushing it to a dark corner of my head (yes, Reader, this is called suppression, and it is a very bad coping method. I’m working on it). It was good for me to go through that. But it’s all very surreal, looking at that person you used to be, seeing that person who wrote what I wrote.
I think I like having so many journals because I like having options to vent. I like knowing that I can write anything, in any of the journals, and not have to explain myself any more than I did withing that entry. I like not having to see the looks, feeling the feels, of the person I’m telling this thing to. Now, don’t get it twisted, Reader, I love talking about all my woes to a live human being. Sometimes though, I like keeping things to myself. But I don’t like keeping it in. So, there you have it. The inside scoop on why I have three barely touched journals.
Anyway, I think I’m going to go off and start to write yet another blog post. ‘Till next time, Reader.