For as long as I can remember, I would open up my journal and write down my day. My ups and downs. My realizations. My inspirations.
My paragraphs didn’t always have structure. They were messy. Filled with mistakes. Sometimes illegible.
But they made sense to me.
It was my outlet. My way of expression. I would write to nobody, but still feel like I was being read.
There is something very calming in writing down my thoughts. Every emotion I felt. Everything that crossed my mind.
So here I am, still writing my short journal entries as if nothing has changed.
Writing to no one in particular, but still feel like I’m being read.
Giving you access to my mind.
My thoughts don’t always make sense.
But they make sense to me.