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To My Journal, Forever and Ever

Updated Published
The opinions expressed in this article are the writer’s own and do not reflect the views of Her Campus.
This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Ashoka chapter.

Edited by: Stuti Sharma

 “Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture 

And save it from the funny tricks of time 

Slipping through my fingers 

Slipping through my fingers all the time” 

A memory is like an ember. Feed it with a rush of enthralling experiences and it rejuvenates while burning like the most glorious fire. Enclose the experiences in a casket and bury them deep within your heart and the ember dies in a battle against the vast and all-consuming darkness of the night. Once the embers die down, there is only a somber veil of dejection and regret. All those instances of smearing vanilla frosted cake on my face, dancing to Frank Sinatra on the tabletops, turning ten and dreaming of unicorns. All these experiences locked away and thrown deep into the nooks and crannies of the soul and for what? All things lost only because I was envious of the gleeful moments in the past and reality is nowhere near close to being this hopeful. I am envious of the person I used to be and the way I was always keen on flipping the pages of my journal to a new page. A new experience. A new memory recorded safely. Now I have lost count of all the things I never ever wanted to forget. 

It’s fascinating to think how a brown leather-bound diary with blue ruled lined pages and a fluorescent pink sketch pen were once my best friends in childhood, are now weeping somewhere in between the shadows of cardboard boxes, collecting dust amongst the cobwebs of the storeroom…waiting. Waiting for someone to pick them up and flip through the pages again. When I think of them I am always taken aback by a baffling question that has puzzled me forever–Why did I ever stop writing at all? The answer to the question is one that still bothers and frustrates me till this day. I have no clue why the safe and secure spaces between the lines of the pages which were once the venting avenues for all the emotions to pass through are now closed forever. Growing up, I recall all the times I would spend writing about my day at school and asking my friends to sign their names so we could seal our bonds of friendship forever. Upon opening those same pages today I notice the ink that has faded and the incoherent words in between the sentences written in a childish cursive handwriting have become illegible. The blotted ink on the pages mirror my own muddled thoughts and the tumultuous state of my mind. The art of journaling has always been deemed as beneficial and yet growing up I somehow lost the track of time and completely took this habit for granted. But apart from not being able to continue my writing anymore, a part of me was also afraid to document my life experiences after a point of time. Why write at all when nobody cares about reading your work? Be it stories of fiction about brave heroes or deep, personal thoughts jotted down carefully in the form of a journal entry. Every time I am faced with an instance of a writer’s block or a creative dilemma it takes me back to my brief hiatus in my daily habit of journaling. My first act of resistance towards my free flowing thoughts, like a river teeming with life put to a stop by an encroachment. 

Remember those times as kids when we had always dreamt of growing up quickly and taking up all the responsibilities of adults? That time seems like a milestone receding far, far away when I look behind on the highway of life now. Growing up can often hamper our ability to come up with creative endeavors and the inability to continue journaling is one of those restrictions on our thought processes. It’s not that I voluntarily wanted to give up writing but there has always been something about growing up that compels you to give up that youthful joy and carelessness. Writing to my heart’s content has always been reminiscent of some of my fondest memories and thinking about it now I feel dismal and despondent, having lost all the charm and enthusiasm I had harbored around writing and journaling from such a young age. 

Although a significant part of me might have disappeared from my life, it is safe to say that I have still retained some aspect of the old charm. Like a drop of a secret potion– the alchemist’s most prized possession. The realization to retain my habit of journaling and documenting my life has only heightened, ever since I became a college girl. The sheer necessity and urge to keep a track of all those moments that I want to cherish forever. All that time spent meeting and laughing with new people, making friends, cooking in the pantry and falling asleep in someone else’s dorm room are all so near and dear to my heart. As much as I am afraid of adulting and taking ownership of my own life, a part of me is still desirous of writing about all the reckless decisions I made in haste completely overlooking the consequences of my actions, all the people I surprised on their birthdays and the number of times I played the temporary role of the agony aunt and soothed the worries of my friends. All these experiences combine to form a delightful conglomerate of exuberant memories. Let this be an ode and an apology to my journal, for enduring all the moments alone until now. This time I promise to brush the dust off of my journal, turn to a fresh page and just write. A new page. A new beginning. 

Hi I'm Anurima and I am a feature writer at Her Campus. I'm currently a freshman at Ashoka University and my prospective major is Biology with a minor in Environmental Studies and Media Studies (hopefully). Mostly you will find me listening to niche indie rock bands, reading Patti Smith novels and learning about Kurt Cobain or other dead musicians.