Journals

Once upon a time, I used to write in journals. My first ones were Sanrio with big plastic locks that were easily picked with Bic pen caps. These were called diaries (is there a difference? Does a lock define a diary, and a simple open book with pages dictate a journal?). In my tweens, basic black and white Composition books housed my teeny bopper thoughts. In my teens, I had a brown one with books on the front from Costco. And then when I was 17, I had a basic black one from Barnes & Noble that I used for school, and filled up maybe 20 pages at most. Then, for some unknown reason, I stopped.

I guess I can think of possible reasons. When I was 17 or 18, I went through the old Composition book journal and the brown book one. It was embarrassing. How could I have thought those thoughts and written the way I did? They were both instantly thrown in the dumpster outside. I couldn't risk the chance of someone finding them and reading such embarrassing thoughts. There were some very angry entries with large spiky writing and lots of profanity and others debating about what to wear on picture day. Remember picture day? I had completely forgotten that even existed.

Around the time I gave up journals was also the time my friends and I decided to write in Xanga. I used this as a substitute to a tangible journal, and since then, never went back. I went through all of college and my early twenties without writing out of any of my real thoughts and feelings. How did I do it? I think boyfriends became the journals, and had they known they were the alternative, would have bought me a journal immediately.

So I've decided to journal again. Not blogs. Nothing online. Good, old fashioned journals. Pen and paper. Growing up, I found it very therapeutic. It's been at least a good seven years since I've last written in journal. I think I need it. As I've said before, a lot has died in me in the past seven years. Maybe journaling will bring these things back to life.

I would love a pretty one such as the Prospero Journal pictured above, but are my thoughts at twenty-five worthy of such an elaborate looking book? Will I read this at 35 and chuck it in the dumpster as I did at 18? Or are my musings more sophisticated now?