Every few months to a year, I start a new notebook.
Not because I want to, but because my last one is filled up with memories. Drawings, handwriting, and lots of other stuff.
My last notebook was a Christmas gift from my boss, Raquel in 2009. I was in the middle of another notebook at the time, and I didn't start it till just over a year later. February 2011 I was living in China, and started my new notebook.
This notebook has a lot of China in it. Drawings, comics, tic-tac-toe games, hangman, hate-mail I never sent, and joy-mail as well.
There're lots of interesting events recorded in that particular notebook: my adventures in China, notes from Chinese class, my grandmother's death, my adventures abroad, dating and marrying my dear man, and moving to and adjusting to Los Angeles.
It is so strange to have something so small as a diary or journal sitting in your hand: completed, full, so meaningless and so meaningful at the same time.
It's strange to think about all the angst, and cheerfulness and boredom that my hand poured onto those pages in the form of ink.
There are pages of calm, even, handwriting--lined up like so many furrows in a feild. And there are pages that were written in such excitement that they are scarcely legible.
So much thought flowed from my mind to my hand, puddling in the pools of ink that now flow in rivers across the pages.
I love journalling. I haven't always, but for me, it is better than talking to a friend. Because a notebook won't give me any sass.
Not because I want to, but because my last one is filled up with memories. Drawings, handwriting, and lots of other stuff.
My last notebook was a Christmas gift from my boss, Raquel in 2009. I was in the middle of another notebook at the time, and I didn't start it till just over a year later. February 2011 I was living in China, and started my new notebook.
This notebook has a lot of China in it. Drawings, comics, tic-tac-toe games, hangman, hate-mail I never sent, and joy-mail as well.
There're lots of interesting events recorded in that particular notebook: my adventures in China, notes from Chinese class, my grandmother's death, my adventures abroad, dating and marrying my dear man, and moving to and adjusting to Los Angeles.
It is so strange to have something so small as a diary or journal sitting in your hand: completed, full, so meaningless and so meaningful at the same time.
It's strange to think about all the angst, and cheerfulness and boredom that my hand poured onto those pages in the form of ink.
There are pages of calm, even, handwriting--lined up like so many furrows in a feild. And there are pages that were written in such excitement that they are scarcely legible.
So much thought flowed from my mind to my hand, puddling in the pools of ink that now flow in rivers across the pages.
I love journalling. I haven't always, but for me, it is better than talking to a friend. Because a notebook won't give me any sass.
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