Monday, 07:54, London
I’ve lost touch with a deeper connection I had and need with journaling. It’s positives and negatives. I’m not reliant on it any more to resolve my inner conflicts, but neither am I working through those remaining. I’m not in states of anxiety as I was last year, but I’ve still parts of me tangled and overgrown. It feels natural to be where I am now in relation to the page.
The connection with the page I’ve forged over the years since departing the relationship I’d been through my twenties got me to this place now. It released me from introspection and allowed me to claim ownership of my narrative and desires. But by leaving the page to focus on writing about the role of cyanobacteria in the evolution of the atmosphere, I’ve also lost parts of the remembering, the documenting, and the anchoring of my days.
I should remind myself of the value of making time to journal. The words aren’t lost after writing, each forms a part of a new self, a constantly regenerating version of me. I can write out all the things I desire and it becomes easier. It allows me to surface fears and unclearly defined emotions out the darkness to hold in the daylight for inspection. It gives me practice in rhythm and voice. It builds a sense of having more time, mounting a resistance against a tendency to feeling there isn’t enough. Out of these pages emerge new ideas, clarity, and need.