My Journaling Journey

So far, I have filled three journals.

I remember I started journaling because my favorite YouTuber, Technoblade, passed away from cancer. For that reason, I started a journal to document my journey to avenge him. Rest assured, my plan has not changed, and he will be avenged.

Moreover, my first journal was written in print and in pencil, so it might actually fade away with time. I would write in it whenever I pleased, and the time in between journal entries could span from one day to a few months. Nonetheless, I was compelled to write many entries over a long period of time and eventually filled it.

For my second and third journals, I began writing in cursive, and I expect to continue this trend until the end of my journaling career. When well-equipped with a sleek and flawless pen, writing in cursive makes journaling an exceptionally delightful experience. Its beauty and elegance make me want to write forever. Though sometimes my cursive is horrendous, and then I wish to throw my journal in a campfire for having ruined it with chicken scratch. If you’ve noticed the change in diction in this paragraph, that’s pretty much how writing in cursive feels. Writing in cursive also adds the most basic layer of encryption to protect against those who wish to invade your privacy by reading your journal. Because schools stopped teaching cursive in 2010, the youngins are no longer able to write it, let alone read it.

After you finish a journal, there’s the art of choosing what the next one will look like. Make no mistake, I buy my journals from Ross Dress 4 Less. They’re only about six dollars and a piece of bubble gum at that establishment. I would buy more sophisticated ones on Amazon, and I have, but when one arrived, it reeked of some indescribable foul stench. After reading reviews, it seems that most journals from Amazon will happily steal your money and curse your nostrils. Disgusting.

I also like to journal with an audience in mind. I know someone will eventually read my journals, so they need to know that I know my writing is no secret. And yet, I still write my secrets because if someone is reading my journal, that means I have withered away into the soil and grown up with the flowers. Or, in other words, you’d have to read my journals over my dead body.