I was rereading my old journal entries and noticed a trend. At the beginning of every new notebook, I start off with optimism and some great paragraph about the refreshing nature of starting a new notebook. It's extremely neat, and every inch of the page is filled. Then, as I proceed throughout the rest of the notebook, the writing becomes messier, there's more attitude and UMPH to my personality, and basically, I become more unfiltered. Some pages are vulgar. Others are show extreme passion about a particular subject. Usually, I sound overly critical and self-deprecating.
Throughout Vol. 1, I continuously write about my goal of sleeping early and rising early. I laugh as I read that now, because I never truly implemented that until this spring. Then there's the issue of self-control. I swear I read the sentence "I lack self-control"at least ten times within fifteen pages. Following that is usually "I must maintain control" or "I must learn control in order to feel like a civilized human being." Mastered it? Nope, self-control is so not in control. Still learning (and probably always will be). And the worst parts of reading this is how obnoxiously dumb I sounded when I wrote about the male species. Oh yes, it happened. The naivete, jealousy, and disoriented realities? Thinking about it makes me cringe. More cringing to commence in future volumes. I excuse myself as I think of the horrid person I was during my first year of college, clearly incompetently transitioning from high school.
Writing in Vol. 2 is the first time I relished in writing in a composition book instead of a spiral bound notebook. Small, strange things like these still excite me. Vol.2 is filled with grotesque complains about running an organization with incompetent staff. Short stories proliferate these pages. There is brainstorming about fantastic sci-fi plots, highlighting main characters and superpowers. There are beautiful words I jot down when reading a novel. Some of the best quotes from peeps, especially Natalie and Leah ("I tried to catch the fog, but I mist. Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job? She couldn't control her pupils. I'm a fermata. Hold me"). Extensive complaints about academics. I consistently and philosophically question morality and the meaning of life.
Now, I'm currently halfway through Vol. 3 (already waiting for the moment when I can whip out a new notebook in a few months). So far, it is mostly filled with some of my favorite quotes I read from great novels and hear from inspiring TED Talks (my favorite so far: "Expected the unexpected, and wherever possible, be the unexpected"). I write about things I feel proud of, and things I need to work on. I continuously remind myself to not care, or at least care a lot less, about what other people think of me. I describe new people I meet, and treasure the genuine moments I have with others. That wonderful feeling of being able to talk for a couple hours with someone I've truly come to respect, admire, and empathize with.
If someone has never met me and only read my journal, that person would likely find me pessimistic and blunt. But isn't that what a journal is for? Journals record my innermost thoughts that simply cannot be transferred through sound waves or understood by another person. It's for me to look back at and laugh at a younger, less mature me, or to realize that I haven't grown at all and should probably go partake in more worldly activities. Journals reflect the worst in me, and sometimes, the best.
I wish I had written during high school. I can't imagine the bizarre things I would have written then, and it would be nice to see how my mind has been molded since.
