Dusty diary.

Apparently, I have a lot on my mind.

I’ve been thinking lately about journaling. I love to write, but my hand isn’t as fast as my thoughts causing quite an inconvenience for my thought process. Typing is easier and faster, but when I have something really personal to write, I find myself pushing it to the side because I don’t want to put it on the internet and I can’t seem to get my words on the paper fast enough or perfect enough.

When I was in Africa this summer, I wrote every night. I missed a night, only twice, and then I had to write down the previous days events the next morning. I always wrote a good 6-8 pages every night and some nights I got up to 11 or more. I think I wrote 14 pages one night. Crazy, right?

And now, I feel like a terrible owner of a dusty journal. If journals could talk, mine would be sad. It’s been a month since I’ve written on the blank pages, and a month before that, and another month before that. 3 entries. 3 months. Is my life really that unexciting? Am I scared of the word vomit that will find itself forever imprinted on the pages which portray my mind’s ramblings?

Today I’ve written so much. I’m undecided on whether it’s because there’s something I really feel the need to tell everyone, or if it’s simply because I need to write. Today I’ve watched and read and felt love and I just need to write. Something about today is weird. Awkward even.

Maybe it’s like I’ve said over and over. It’s not the words that come out, but rather just the writing. Forming my thoughts into something tangible. But it could be that I keep writing because there’s a lot that I need to say and to different people and I just haven’t gotten all the other thoughts out of my head so that these real thoughts can form tangibly into something that is worth saying..?

Then again, perhaps today is just a rambling kind of day. There are important things that need to be said to important people, but I can’t think of one thing to say.


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