Tuesday, January 15, 2013

This is My Life

This is my life. Right there.


I have approximately 32 journals, and one currently in the works. I don't know what got me hooked into writing. For the longest as I can remember, I have always had this love for writing, and once I had my first journal placed in my hands; it just bloomed, and took off from there. 

This was my first journal. Imagine that. I started writing when I was a freshman in high school. I had so much angst, and feelings going through my mind. I had so much to say, and nobody to share my thoughts with. 

You know, your typical teenager thinking she was all alone, and the world was against her. Nobody gets her. Maybe one or two very close friends does. But as for parents, teachers, siblings, or you name it; they all don't get it. 

Insert a massive eye roll here. 

That was so me. 


All of my journals carried personal feelings, thoughts, my firsts, my lasts, my experiences, and most importantly of all; my memories. I've been asked this throughout years; what would be one of few things you would try to save in case of a fire, and my answers always have been my journals. After all, it's my life written down in those books. 

I always have a little rite with my every new journal. When I get a new journal, I immediately pluck out my permanent makers (love those things), pluck my favorite quotes or lyrics from songs I love, and scribble them down all over the inner pages. Sometimes, I'd draw pictures, doodle, or cut pictures out of magazines or from my pictures that I've taken over the years, and plaster them there. It's my inner working of my soul, I'd say. 

I admit that in last 2-3 journals; I have not done this due to time constraint, and lack of creativity, I suppose. It is hard with a little baby on the board to find the time to sit down, and barf all rainbow quotes onto the pages. However, those pages are left blank intentionally within a reason. 



Over the years, I started collecting journals with unique covers that reflected a certain time in my life. After that, I was unable to return back to your regular old spiral-binder notebooks. I found that the best journals with unique covers often originated from Barnes and Noble Bookstore. Also, every Christmas, I always put in journals as a request as my Christmas list from Dad. He often had impeccable taste, and purchased the best journals for me. Very rarely I would not ask for a journal mainly because I already had one or two blank journals waiting to be filled by my words. Even more rarely, when I did not get a journal, and I was in a pinch of needing one; I often spent my Barnes and Noble giftcard or my cash to purchase one nice thick journal that would last for 6 months or more. 



I used to write daily. What did I write? Whatever that tickled my fancy. Whatever that angered me. Whatever that inspired me. Whatever caused me to pick up a pen, and press it against a blank page only to fill it with my ramblings. Stories. Thoughts. Dreams. Fantasies. Words. 


Now? I am beginning to find more time to resume writing every day once again now that my little pill monster  is napping on a regular intervals.

Before he had a predictable nap time and bedtime schedules; I wrote once a week, and always found a time to write. I had to. I was unable to go weeks and weeks at time without writing. It was as if I had so much words, and I was about to break apart like dam breaking apart from excessive water pressure. Journals always had been my source of outlet for my emotions. 

I've also been asked several times, after learning that I journal, if I am planning on ever publishing my journals. 

Sometimes I entertain the notion of doing so.

Sometimes I prefer not to, and have my life stay hidden. 

At least for now.


More often than not, when I return to my previous entries...sometimes days, weeks, or even years later, I discover lessons inside my words, and learn from them. To learn. To enrich from my mistakes, and avoid from repeating them in the future. To absorb my happiness of that time, and smile or laugh at later date. To feel what I felt again. My memories are so valuable, and so cherished. I'm quite glad that I've written them all down. 

Those journals may be carrier of my story of my life. Inside those events, there are so many lessons waiting to be learned from. 

It is why I write.