Dangerous Ground

I found some old handwritten journals. Actually, just 2.

One I kept for 1 ½ years during high school, the other only managed to survive the summer months of last year. I noticed a surprising correlation (yes, besides the utter brevity)—both journals ended at the end of summer, but most notably, the year before a guy came into my life and turned it upside down.

I'm not particularly glad to find that coincidence.

Let me explain, I'm against being one of those type of girls who define their life by guys (even if done unintentionally), so it's ironic that my journals revealed an uncanny truth about myself. Writing helps me define...and perhaps, in many ways, find myself again and again. So, the scary thought to me is...well, then why do I tend to go on these long journal-writing hiatuses where I end up losing my heart, my mind, and all these precious and sometimes unknown parts of myself?

Oh, bother. I always try to pay careful attention to Life’s coincidences (such as this one just discovered). And, I wonder about the reasons...

I wish I didn’t let school, extracurricular miscellaneous, and my social life take away from my journal writing. You see, I’m quite curious to know what I may have been feeling during those missing gaps of the school year (both happened to be my junior year, too!) in my journals. Like, “What the HELL were you thinking?!” and “HOW do you manage to fall for someone so…easily?”

You'll agree, this is valuable knowledge to have when I fall—suddenly and completely—for someone yet again. Because obviously there are some things simply too inherent, too basic. Some things just don't change that easily.

Matters of the mind are tricky enough to decipher…and, matters of the heart? Even more difficult to decipher, much less understand. If even possible.

Therefore, I find writing helps. Seeing my stream-of-consciousness transcend into black and white, I am compelled to finally accept it. It helps to organize thoughts, to get those feelings out there, so that I can’t deny, ignore, or refuse the reality about how I deal with things…

About who I am.