My journal changes over time. Small, large, detailed, random, more artistic, less artistic. It’s all good, nor does it really matter. How do YOU feel? What do YOU need to get off your chest? Why aren’t YOU doing it? This is the pure joy of journaling. What else in life is utterly under your control?
I work. You work. We all work. We have tasks, jobs, duties, often under the guidance or control of others. But not these pages. Nope. Just me. Want to type then print then paste? Sure, go for it. Want to scribble with a crayon? Who am I to judge?
The hard part for many people. Not performing. Body checked by not having the work on display. “All pain, no gain.” Left in a room alone with their own thoughts with no “Like” button to quench their digital thirst. It’s terrifying to many liberating to some. And the some, I think you will be surprised. The journaling community is filled with the best and the brightest, a consistency I’ve discovered after many years of traveling with my books.
Chance encounters with fellow “bookkeepers,” in places like Panama, Cambodia, and France. An acknowledgment of the wrinkled page, the ink-stained fingers, and time alone in a chair away from the noise. At sunrise or sunset, on buses or huddled in the rain under an overhang in the Guatemalan jungle.
There is much to be said for privacy. Some say we no longer have this rare, human mineral as our rights erode with each passing software update. But for me, I know I still do.