A couple of weeks ago, I read through my old journals. Maybe that sounds like a waste of time, or maybe it sounds super boring, but neither of the two are true. Reading through my old journal entries was absolutely incredible. Within the pages of my own writing, I saw the evolution of my own character. And the most amazing part about it is how I didn’t realize it at the time.
When I was in elementary school, writing stories about best friends and illustrating each of their wardrobes, I didn’t realize that I’d still see an importance in the same thing years later. Sure, I don’t draw outfits for characters now, but I still believe that outfits can say a lot. That more than words can be used to say things.
When I was in middle school, I didn’t realize that my poems and thoughts were asking questions. I had been attempting to answer questions. Attempting to make sense of the world. Yet really, I wondered why people chose to pursue things they weren’t passionate about and why people became wrapped up in things they didn’t truly believe in.
And now, as I write as a high school student, I don’t realize that I’m answering the questions I posed in middle school. Through the exploration of my own writing, I developed opinions. I formed thoughts and values and beliefs and ideas. I hadn’t realized how my writing progressed. How I began as a little girl who loved style and humor and friendship. How I changed into a skeptic who questioned the world around her. How I continue to make sense of it through this wonderful journey of writing.
If you asked me why I write, I could give you many answers.
I write to inspire the world.
I write to have a voice.
I write because it’s natural. Because whenever I feel any sort of emotion, it only feels right to pick up a pen.
But I also write to learn. I write to explore and discover and remember and travel. And even if this blog gains followers, I’ll forever be loyal to my journals.
Because a journal is something I carry with me through these journeys. A journal has ink smudges and loopy handwriting and creases in the pages and scribbles over words. A journal, just like a blog, is an art form. But they both tell very different stories, even if the words are exactly the same.
I’m not one of those people who hates the internet. Actually, reading through my journals gave me a new hope for this blog. Maybe if I read this years from now, I’ll understand something that I never knew before. I’ll enter a new world. I’ll see a computer screen full of beautiful nostalgia. Years from now, this blog could speak entirely different words to me. And that is something I find truly incredible.