Tonight I wrote in a real journal. Like, made out of paper.
It was the first time I'd written in my journal in over three years.
I used to keep a regular journal--so regular that I called it my diary. I wrote most every day from the time I was ....six or seven? Then in my mid twenties I stopped writing so much. I have no idea why I stopped writing so much. I still write poems, I'm still working on a memoir, and I still love to write. But the urge to chronicle my life became more and more unnecessary as the years trucked on. Perhaps I found other outlets. I was a bit of a loner (believe it!) when I was younger. Perhaps my diaries were a form of friendship, someone to confide to.
Tonight I sought out that lined paper again and filled up four pages. I wrote about what is going on in my life right now--career and personal. The truth is, I've been feeling out of sorts lately with all the changes I've brought on myself and brought on by other stuff. I decided that writing it all down would help. My diary never judged me when I was a young, insecure teenager. It probably won't judge me now that I'm an adult.
A sheet of paper is good like that. It listens.