I love to write. Not just on my blog; I promise you I have deeper thoughts than the value of celery. I love to write poems, awful though they may be. I love to write in my journal, not simply by recounting the events of the day, but also by wrestling through my deepest thoughts and worries.
"Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us."
-Don Delillo
Without my journal, I would never remember the discoveries I have made this year. Without my journal, I would probably never be able to keep calm on the outside when I'm really terrified, nervous, anxious or upset. My journal allows me to set goals and track their progress, to confess my errors and to confront my darkness. I call it my "confession to no one", and write it in all of my languages to ensure that it remains forever my own.
There is no gift I've enjoyed receiving more than my various journals. I think there is something so poignant about the gift of a set of thick papers, bound with a carefully planned design to set apart this journal from any other. The pages are blank and are begging to be filled.
Travling Bratislava, I met a young man named Rémi. We talked about the beauty of a journal. He recalled the very first journal he ever received, and says that to this day he can picture it where it was sitting, waiting to be opened.
Why is it so powerful of a gift? To me, the blank pages waiting to be filled are a metaphor for life. Each one is waiting to be filled and only you can do so. And later, when you look back on those pages, only you will remember the feelings, just like reminiscing about your history.
True Confession #4: I honestly just think Cézanne sucked at painting, not that he was a creative pioneer.
PS: This is my 100th blog post!
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