When I was younger, I had found a Journal at my father’s auto body shop – Someone had left their book behind. It was covered in this amazing leather bound creation that held a small graph paper tablet inside. It belonged to a gentleman named Dan.
Dan was a musician (guitarist) and also an avid traveler. Dan was also obsessed with a woman named Lily. He wrote songs (with chords) about her.
I liked reading Dan’s thoughts and how he lived.
There was no address to send his Journal back to him.
I still have Dan’s Journal.
That was the first time I realized how much I enjoyed reading about others lives and reading about it as ‘first person’. Dan had no idea (assuming) that I, a 12 year old girl, would find his book and would be reading about his life.
I am 30 years old now.
‘Journal Exchange’ - What exactly did you mean by that?
Ideally how it works is we would both write in a journal / notebook.
Send an E-Mail to one another once a week – A head’s up to keep in touch and also for writing’s sake – how it’s going and to make sure the other person didn’t forget.
Once we finish filling all of its pages, we would mail it off to one another.
The journals would be ours to keep or to toss, or to randomly leave on a table at a Coffee Shop for someone to read. I’ve done the latter on various occasions with my own journals that hadn’t been traded.
I’ve done this several times and it’s a trip to read other’s lives as first person.
Truthfully, I still have the journals of those I’ve traded with.
So here it is… Want to exchange journals?
Only serious replies please - PM me or Comment
Disclaimer - I am only looking for one person to do this exchange with. I will respond to all who inquire and let them know if anything has been set in stone. Thank you.
"You sink, you sink, and you sink further. You have no air-it has left your lungs and you feel it. You feel the tug-the pull of death grasping your lungs and refusing to let go. You reach up and beg-beg for the reaper to let you go.
It grabs you tighter, and you shut your hazy green eyes.
For my second entry, I'm not necessarily talking about the moment when you get so ticked off you go to your quarters, shut the room (not slam, that's mom's thing), and sulk about how much the world sucks. I'm talking-I'm referring to the moment when the world seems too big and the issue with mom and your chores seems so small.
I'm not sure if you've ever been at the point of your life where you can't breathe. You shut your eyes because you don't want to see how ugly the world has become. This is the point of your life where the climax happens-but only it has more of a conflict then a resolution. I guess this is when you fall and you break. You need help because this sickness takes you over, but there is none. It's funny how people stick to you when you’re happy, but leave you when you’re at the lowest point. People love gold more than stone.
They think you’re crazy, and when your feelings surround you like a mob of flames, you think so too. You want the pain to go away, but something inside of you thinks it will never leave. And then the feelings grow stronger, and you can't help it dragging you away from the light.
"You sink, you sink, and you sink further."
The colors that you once had get stained in a vile color of grey, and then they disappear the more you let yourself suffocate under the feeling that "I can't defeat this. Someone help!"
You have no air-it has left your lungs and you feel it.
The colors wash away, and then the feelings get stronger.
You feel the tug-the pull of death grasping your lungs and refusing to let go.
When these feelings-these demons take a hold of you, this is the vital climax. It isn't where you die, it's when you feel death. It is when you want to give up because your dreams won't come true, the friends you had left you, your family disowned you. I'm talking about the moment in life where you just don't know what to do because you are so lost the map in your hands is translated in the language of hollowness. You hear others tell you "it's okay," "things will get better," and sometimes they actually think it will, and sometimes they just snicker.
"They don't understand," you scream because it's just you feeling it.
You reach up and beg-beg for the reaper to let you go.
That's the moment of everything, especially the moment of something new-something bright.
The lowest point of your life will lead to the greatest point. Just breath-breath and scream as loud as you can "you won't kill me!" They won't. The enemy staring right at you isn't your friend, mom, school, dream-it's pretty laughable how we don't realize it sooner.
It's the person staring right back at you in the glass.
It grabs you tighter.
The strongest demon you will ever face is yourself because you are the one who can stop everything. You are the one who can fall and refuse to get up. You are the one who can make the pain worse and sink deeper. However, you are also the one who can take the pain away, who can save yourself, who can die your world the brightest color. Your dream didn't end. Your mom isn't holding you down. Your friends aren't leading you to the wrong path. You're thinking they are though, and the demons come pouring in like vultures. Don't let it end. You haven't completely sunk yet. For once swimming classes can come in handy.
Pull yourself up from the violently sea. Click on the flashlight to see in the dark. Paint your world rainbow. The reflection dressed in grey can be painted brighter. Sing-rejoice-because if you don't let yourself die and break, you won the battle. When you become your worst enemy, the game is over-but if you hold out your hand to the reflection two colors mix to create another. You are the same-you are you-and you're the only one who can save yourself from your demons.
The worst point leads you to the resolution, and a happy ending is the best ending.
Keep fighting, and don't lose yourself. Don't let the colors dull. Hold on a bit more tightly and keep on painting until a beautiful canvas is staring back at you.
A hand grabs your wrist and pulls and pulls and stops when you reach the surface. You gasp for air and smile because you can finally breath again, and when you look up bright green eyes stares back at you. They hold out their hand, and you don't even think before taking it. You feel the soft sand between your toes, and you breathe again, and again, and again because you can't get enough of the feeling of success.
You stare at the waters and notice bright green eyes staring back at you through the currents.
You breath in again.
I'm going to start this entry like this-I've only typed about eleven words already and I feel like this is going to be one hell of a journey.
I began this blog first thinking about the followers, the fans, and the fame, but then I realized those aren't the right reasons. The reason to blog is to express-the reason to write is to create; just like the reason to eat is to live. I'm not an experienced writer. I'm not someone with gold chains like Snoop Dog or makeup for days like Kim Kardashian. I'm someone who thinks, stares at a blank piece of paper, listens to my song of the week (last week it was Try To Fight It by Shallow Side), and finally starts to write until I get to lost into the words and the spaces between them-until my fingers feel cramped from typing for so long-until I tell myself to keep going, and going, and going until finally I have the first paragraph rolling. That's a gift, or as I call it, "fiddle magic." One word becomes a sentence, then a sentence becomes two, then three, then it keeps on going until you have a page-and then that's when you stop for a nice cup of Lipton ice tea.
Writing isn't just a way to express, it is a way to pour out your feelings, and hopes, and dreams, and what ever action scene is playing in your head. When you begin typing, you aren't yourself anymore. You are whoever you desire to be and what you drew yourself out to be. You aren't yourself. You feel like someone-something else and your faceless. Sometimes you get so into this character you've morphed, you just stop and breath and remind yourself of who you really are. To answer this theoretical question, who I am is someone with a passion for writing that needs to be filled just like that cup of Lipton ice tea.
I am TeenXZ, and I'm a writer just for fun.