I’m starting to realize part of the appeal of journaling is having conversations I can’t have with anyone else. If I talked to someone as much as I wrote in in my google docs, I’d bore their fucking minds out, and I’d expose too many of my flaws and insecurities. It’s hard to ACTUALLY talk about yourself. It’s not like you say upon meeting “Oh, yes, I play piano, sing, write music, and I have irritable bowel syndrome and chew my toenails”. But the stuff I want to talk about isn’t even as interesting as explosive diarrhea or autocannibalism; it’s just “ah-ha” moments that I feel like documenting because perhaps I can mark a trend in my thinking, and watch myself grow in a way that truly documents far more honestly and consistently than a picture.
Also, secret confession, I journal because based on the reception my ideas have in company, I secretly think people will care what I was like when I was younger (since they’re going to care so0o0oo much about me when I’m older and much less attractive), and this will be the most sincere first-hand telling of it.
A girl can dream (and a girl I am).
I’m okay with this fantasy though, there are far worse. At least I want to be looked back upon and renowned for my intellect, rather than my apple-bottom booty and my “2010’s classic haircut”. It’s all apart of my idea of wanting to be impressive. I think everyone has this desire, there’s a certain safety in it, a certain validation, conferring confidence and the thumbs up for your decision making abilities. It’s no different than being the pond fish who dreams of the sea. I actually really like me right now, and I hope I still do later, and I hope someone does love me enough to wish to know who I was before I met them. I have people in my life that I would kill to have a journal from them when they were younger, like my mom. I wish so badly I could see her 23 year old self and gauge how what happened, happened.
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