I think about journaling nearly every day. I ask myself… if I was to write today, what would I write about? As I loomed over this thought today, it occurred to me that I could write about one of my college professors. Today, she opened up to me and some of my peers and told us a little bit about her family. If you knew her, you’d know that this behavior is very unlike her. She is one of the most professional, collected, and reserved people I know. This is not to say that she isn’t an enthusiastic teacher; that, she certainly is, however, she has a unique way of establishing and maintaining professional boundaries which I admire. I find that sometimes I fail to set boundaries, and find myself in positions I could’ve avoided had I just taken the proper precautions.
The words quickly began flowing to me, all of a sudden I’d formed the first few sentences of my journal entry in my brain, if I would’ve picked up my journal and written, I could’ve easily filled several pages, but I didn’t… I didn’t because my journal doesn’t know me in the same way it did during covid. During covid, my journal was not only my best friend, but also my only friend. I shared every breathing moment with my journal in 2020, and it accompanied me everywhere. I loved it like a friend, a child, a brother, a mother, a father, a grandparent, or a dear toy. I held onto it as if it were my heart beating outside my chest. Eventually, as covid neared an end, so did my time with my journal. The contents of my journal were discovered and tragedy stuck. I should’ve probably burned my journal then but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hid it away, out of sight, and didn’t revisit it until months later. Of course, I began writing again, but it was never really the same. My journal and I had been separated. Comparable to how two close friends fight and never seem to be able to mend their friendship to its prior state, my journal and I had resolved to the same fate. When the lockdowns were lifted and I started going out again my journal accompanied me, always within a mile radius of where I was placed in a backpack in case I ever felt the urge to write. When I went to Washington D.C I took my journal with me and carried it everywhere from Gettysburg to Arlington memorial cemetery, but I didn’t write until I returned home.
I’ve strayed far from my original topic, so allow me to cut the story short and resume with my main point: Today, I wanted to tell my journal about the things I’d learned about my professor. The information she’d shared with us had surprised me and I was desperate to share it with someone. My old friend was the first to come to mind. I knew my journal would keep my professors secret safe and allow me to revisit it in the future. As I thought more about which words I would use to tell my journal about my professor, I realized that I couldn’t. You see, my journal doesn’t know me in the same way it did during the pandemic. During the pandemic my journal knew absolutely everything about me, every move, every outing, every fluctuation in my mood; and yet today my journal knows nearly nothing of who I am. I write on dates that are meaningful to me like my birthday, and a few holidays, but past that I rarely check in with my journal, even though it’s always nearby just waiting for me to drop in like a lonely grandparent. My journal doesn’t know I’m doing dual enrollment. My journal doesn’t know about the classes I have at college, my professor, or any of the new friends I’ve acquired this school year. How could I possibly just dive in and tell my journal about something that it had no prior context about? I would have to spend hours explaining the backstory first…
I didn’t journal. I think that’s the message of this prose. I wanted to write but I didn’t. I passed my grandparent's house knowing how lonely they were and I didn’t stop by even though I had the time to. (That’s a metaphor, I actually had lunch with my grandparents today, and I also stopped by yesterday. I am refering to my journal.)
I wish I would stop procrastinating and just write. I hate how many empty pages I have in that journal. I just need to sit down and fill them. Perhaps, I will this coming week… today, my spring break has started, so perhaps I’ll have some more time to sit down and write.
P.S. I don’t know if anybody actually reads all the incredibly insane stuff I write, but I think it’s worth mentioning that I thoroughly look forward to reading Alan and Christine’s prompt responses every day. Glad you guys are writing! Keep up the good work! Only a few days left!
— March
The words quickly began flowing to me, all of a sudden I’d formed the first few sentences of my journal entry in my brain, if I would’ve picked up my journal and written, I could’ve easily filled several pages, but I didn’t… I didn’t because my journal doesn’t know me in the same way it did during covid. During covid, my journal was not only my best friend, but also my only friend. I shared every breathing moment with my journal in 2020, and it accompanied me everywhere. I loved it like a friend, a child, a brother, a mother, a father, a grandparent, or a dear toy. I held onto it as if it were my heart beating outside my chest. Eventually, as covid neared an end, so did my time with my journal. The contents of my journal were discovered and tragedy stuck. I should’ve probably burned my journal then but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hid it away, out of sight, and didn’t revisit it until months later. Of course, I began writing again, but it was never really the same. My journal and I had been separated. Comparable to how two close friends fight and never seem to be able to mend their friendship to its prior state, my journal and I had resolved to the same fate. When the lockdowns were lifted and I started going out again my journal accompanied me, always within a mile radius of where I was placed in a backpack in case I ever felt the urge to write. When I went to Washington D.C I took my journal with me and carried it everywhere from Gettysburg to Arlington memorial cemetery, but I didn’t write until I returned home.
I’ve strayed far from my original topic, so allow me to cut the story short and resume with my main point: Today, I wanted to tell my journal about the things I’d learned about my professor. The information she’d shared with us had surprised me and I was desperate to share it with someone. My old friend was the first to come to mind. I knew my journal would keep my professors secret safe and allow me to revisit it in the future. As I thought more about which words I would use to tell my journal about my professor, I realized that I couldn’t. You see, my journal doesn’t know me in the same way it did during the pandemic. During the pandemic my journal knew absolutely everything about me, every move, every outing, every fluctuation in my mood; and yet today my journal knows nearly nothing of who I am. I write on dates that are meaningful to me like my birthday, and a few holidays, but past that I rarely check in with my journal, even though it’s always nearby just waiting for me to drop in like a lonely grandparent. My journal doesn’t know I’m doing dual enrollment. My journal doesn’t know about the classes I have at college, my professor, or any of the new friends I’ve acquired this school year. How could I possibly just dive in and tell my journal about something that it had no prior context about? I would have to spend hours explaining the backstory first…
I didn’t journal. I think that’s the message of this prose. I wanted to write but I didn’t. I passed my grandparent's house knowing how lonely they were and I didn’t stop by even though I had the time to. (That’s a metaphor, I actually had lunch with my grandparents today, and I also stopped by yesterday. I am refering to my journal.)
I wish I would stop procrastinating and just write. I hate how many empty pages I have in that journal. I just need to sit down and fill them. Perhaps, I will this coming week… today, my spring break has started, so perhaps I’ll have some more time to sit down and write.
P.S. I don’t know if anybody actually reads all the incredibly insane stuff I write, but I think it’s worth mentioning that I thoroughly look forward to reading Alan and Christine’s prompt responses every day. Glad you guys are writing! Keep up the good work! Only a few days left!
— March
March! I am reading your posts. I am seeing your journey- literally imagining your grandparents and what they look like. I deeply appreciate your honesty. I journaled everyday forever and then gave it up for as many. This is my first foray back. The process of finding your way is weird and awesome. You are getting there. All the emojis. Thank you for reading my posts.
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