This is not a journal entry.

The best thing about being a writer is being able to express the way you feel without having to verbally speak at all. Maybe that was what I used to find most appealing, or maybe it was just the escapism that captured my attention, and consumed my time. The truth is, I don’t really know. I don’t know when writing became something that could comfort me, and make me feel anything but lost. I guess I never will know.

I started keeping a diary at a very young age. A diary filled with mundane moments within unimportant days. It makes me laugh when I think about those days, but it also makes me a little sad. I wish all I had to write about were the little things that made me happy. I wish I was able to find positivity in life the way that I used to.

Eventually years passed by and my diaries were put in a box alongside other unwanted items. I no longer wanted to read what I’d done when I was six now that I was sixteen. I also didn’t want to write about things that I knew wouldn’t matter someday. Of course I still did the latter. As I grew up, so did my journal. I didn’t just write about myself anymore, but the people who affected my life, and changed my mood. I guess I still wrote about unimportant things. The moments that I’d want to forget and the people who I’d one day realise weren’t friends at all.

I stopped journaling as much when writing became an all-consuming part of my life. I stopped writing by hand what could be typed. Instead my laptop became more important than the lined paper pages which had helped me become the writer I am today. Instead my blog, and even novel, became a more important project to focus on.  I started wanting my writing to be a career not a coping mechanism. Even so, I felt guilty for no longer writing a journal that wouldn’t be shared. I guess I still do.

So, why don’t I start journaling again?

I don’t know. Maybe the idea of it no longer seems so appealing. Maybe I’m afraid that I don’t know what to write when it’s not hidden behind a veneer. The veneer which allows me to blog without feeling exposed and vulnerable. The innate skill which edits, and scrutinizes the words on the page so that they can be proudly shared.

The future is very much like an empty, and abandoned journal. You remember and mentally record the moments that not only made you happy, but shaped who you were, and are now. You also edit out the parts that you don’t want to think about, like the days you didn’t write within the pages of your little world. Of course, I am no exception to this theory.

Maybe one day I’ll fill the other half of my journal, as I grow up and become the adult that six-year-old me would be proud of. Maybe I’ll stop lazily sticking train tickets on the lined pages instead of describing where I’d travelled to. Maybe I’ll do that and maybe I won’t. The only fact within this unedited piece of writing is…this is not a journal entry, and it never will be.

Until next time keep dreaming x


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