What color should I get this time? Or should I buy a new pen instead? Well, it would just be wise for me to get both, can’t get a new journal without a new pen, it just wouldn’t be acceptable. These are all the questions I ask myself as I stand there puzzled and excited that I have once again completed an entire journal with nothing but my everyday thoughts. All of a sudden my thoughts are interrupted, in walks my mother, rushing me to purchase a journal that I can write all my new adventures on the way before 5 O’clock traffic jams delay us to our new home in a different state. Yet, I just can’t hastily pick a random sparkly notebook and call it a day, I need something that has significance to it, something I can share a mutual background with and then it finally made its way to my sight a sturdy journal with army print and a dog tag. It’s perfect. I never really understood how or what could make writing exciting, to me exciting was when my father would give me large sums of money to spend on a new wardrobe or when my secret crush secretly made a “move” on me. I was stuck into believing that the simple things of my adolescent life were exciting and that was all there was to it, after I accomplished that it was sayonara old state on to the new, but how many times could I be thrilled from a new wardrobe and a unimportant crush I won’t bother to pursue? So then I began my journey on finding a better and improved me, I tried out for every sport a school could offer but I was either too uncoordinated or not preppy enough. Next, I picked out a few school organizations surely there’s something I can find interesting. Knitting? NO. Anime? NO. Cooking? NO. One failed attempt after another I gave up on searching for the perfect club for me. I tried absolutely everything and yet, I still felt as if I could not discover any passion.
My mother observed that I was desperate for a new feel, her first thought maybe I wanted a new look, perhaps I was experiencing a typical teenage “I want to be different” phase, but instead I came home to a yellow journal and on the inside it read:
“I know all this moving gets hard on you sweetie, and sometimes it can get difficult trying to identify who you truly are. When you’re feeling lost and things become a blur write your thoughts down and I guarantee you’ll never be lost again” – Mom
And there it was my first journal.
As I began to write in my journal I discovered that when I was writing I didn’t have to worry about making the team or follow a set of rules. I was a free spirit jotting down anything that crossed…