I finished another journal yesterday.
They go more and more quickly these days.
As I explore deeper into my being and seek a better understanding of myself, others and the world as a whole I am reminded that the process is important.
I used to write for memories, to document the moments of my life so that as I grew I could remember them better.
Those who know me dearly, know that my memory has never been ‘what it used to be.’ I frivilously attribute it to trying to fit too much into my life and my mind, there’s not room to keep everything in there that’s not serving me at the moment. Whatever the reason, writing has helped me to look back at the moments of my life in a way that I couldn’t trust my memory to do for me.
At some point as I grew older and wanted to sound more profound, I started writing my thoughts.
I’d write with such certainty of my opinions and saw the world in black and white.
I couldn’t imagine changing and I couldn’t imagine ever being wrong.
I didn’t write questions.
I wrote what I believed to be facts.
As I continue to develop, my writing has changed to a combination of things.
I write my memories, I write down my thoughts on my experiences, but I mostly ask myself questions.
Most of which I don’t have answers for, if I’m being completely honest.
But, I keep writing until I have some semblance of one.
There’s a power in writing, in moving a pen until something deep within me unlocks.
It’s the deepest connection that I have to myself.
I want to break open, to remain a malleable human-being.
I want to never believe that I have all of the answers.
I want to continue hearing people and challenging myself.
I want to see the world in it’s vastness but also it’s tiny moments and beautiful details.
I want to write.