Driving home, the words kept flooding my mind, rising higher and higher until I feared they may have overflowed and spilled out, escaping the embankment of my memory. I scanned the sparse shopping centers and towns along 880 N, and even consider taking the
There are a few things I look for when searching for a new journal: a nondescript cover, faint or no lines at all, and pages crisp enough to purr as you thumb along them. These elements are crucial to the inherent openness necessary for a true journal.
I’d once been gifted a journal decorated with ornate mystical scenes with the word dreams italicized across the cover in a misty gold text and thick black lines smeared across soft pages. I use my diaries and journals in a liberal sense: there is no underlying theme interlocking the entries; the pages are molded by the ever-changing sequence of events of my life. Chunks of sorrow, happiness, worry, insight and a various array of feelings create miniature chapters in the adventures of my journey through childhood, adolescence and now "emerging adulthood".
But when I was using the “DREAMS” journal, I felt obligated to twirl about my handwriting in cursive sashays, yet ensuring not to cross over the restrictive black guidelines. I felt forced to record intangible scenes from my dreams and fake insight into their meaning. I even felt a wash of guilt when I’d reach for the journal, intending to smothering the pages with vehement frustration before I exploded, yet feeling judged by the pages for even thinking of corrupting its gentile covers with angry passion.
No, I like my journals to be basic and blank. That's why I enjoy opening up a fresh word document each time I embark on a new blog entry. There is no prompt. It's just whatever flows... and oh, how well it flows in my new journal.