Journaling log-3

Words

Are they infinite?

Regardless, of whether they are or not, is there enough of them to convey all emotion and feelings?

All sorrows?

All levels of joy and ecstasy?

I wish I knew every word. (I’m not a wordsmith by any stretch of the imagination.)

I wish I could describe all things with the greatest detail and with precise succinctness.

Or with vague generalities: words upon words, superfluous, yet precious.

Can you describe a mountain? Its clefts and shrubs? nooks and crannies?

A river and its translucent ripples that shimmer and the surface that sways like  the boughs on its borders.

Can you describe a betrayal without tears?

Anger, without fiery eyes and veins bulging red with blood and all manner of angst and evil?

I wish I was an author.

An author is a painter.

After all do not they both use pens to convey a message?

Don’t they both use a medium? One of paper, the other of canvas.

One draws a circle the other writes ‘a circle’.

Come to think of it, is not the author far more superior?

The painter draws a ball with the greatest detail. He shades around the perimeter he causes it to appear as if it may bounce off the page if the aesthete does not hold the painting carefully.

But it's still a circle.

An author merely need to write ‘sphere’ and 2D transforms into 3D.

Life is breathed into Adam and he becomes a living and active being.

perhaps I’m reading into it too deeply.

Journaling log-2

Time away. From writing. From thinking. From reflecting.

There are moments in my life where it just takes too much for me to get out a pad, or sit at my desk, and write, or type, what I'm thinking. (As I write I am in class and I should be paying attention, but I intend to make this shorter than usual.) Journaling takes life. That is, it takes an accumulation of events and those events are then transferred to a medium of preference. Without events journaling is either pointless or dull. Events can be generated by ourselves or by the world around us: me going to war or me hearing of a war.

With that said, I have been accumulating. Gaining life. Not intentionally (it's never intentional), it happens unexpectedly. School work piles up, work takes ups both time and energy, books get more and more intriguing, lists get longer, naps increase in comfort, conversations give birth to more conversations, etc. until you're left with that millisecond of time at the end when you look at your shelf, or peering over at your desk, over the monument of books and loose leafs and think "I haven't writing in my journal for ages".

I have a section in my journal which I entitled "re-cap" where I sum up everything that last occurred in my life post my last entry. It helps me think about my life. It's like a verbal graph showing me the trajectory of my life. Or a compass showing me where I am going.

Do not feel disheartened when you miss a day of writing. I'll go further: do not make a set schedule to journal. Make a commitment to live and a commitment to get back to journaling whenever life gives you the OK to make a log. He (that is, Life) may desire you live one more moment before you write one more summation. One more brush stroke until you're free to step back and view your masterpiece in fascination .