Journaling is the soul’s outlet. One has so much freedom in writing, transferring their thoughts and emotions onto paper. It could be a sentence, a phrase, even a word, but it is the product of one’s innermost thoughts and a reflection of a person’s being. In journaling, one transforms his or her vapor thoughts into tangible words. The tangled fragments of jumbled ideas and thoughts are forced into a rational composition. Yet, it doesn’t have to be a thought transposed by pen and ink; it could be an imagining or a dream.
In writing, I lose myself in the worlds of my own creating, of dreams well forged in bliss, and of thoughts, either trivial or ponderous. And while I love to empty my brain in this frivolous way, I find a value more practical than simply the emission of thought. It is a release, though not always a transportation away from this world, a means of processing life, of working through ideas, forcing one’s self to rationally contemplate that which their brains alone cannot as readily depict without words on paper. In plainer terms, the incoherent ideas in my mind do not always make sense without their equivalent organized into words on paper. When irrational emotion overcomes me and I take up a journal, the feelings drain like the ink from my pen. If, in anger I begin, I end the page in tranquility.
And so, as often as need be, whenever inspiration strikes, whenever thoughts need thinking into words, whenever I simply long for letters on an empty page, I’ll journal –‘till my thoughts are words.