Opening the book (again).

I've quit journaling.

And I need to get back to it.

Slowly.

It is strange what writing feels like when it is suddenly your work, your school, and your hobby.

Sometimes words on a page feel like too much, or not enough. Whatever I do feels like too much or not enough.

I need to work my way back to the nitty gritty, the simple and spacious and messy.

Writing takes time and mess. And too often I do not let it. I quit because my fingers are sore or my handwriting stinks or I'm tired. Because I don't know what to say. Because there is too much to say.

And I am losing so much because of it.

Start small. Start again.

I may need to acknowledge that it won't be like this time ten years ago, in high school, when I wrote in-depth about the day and if I skipped one I always went back to recount it. I may have to be okay with it not being quite that way. But something.

I feel like I am treating this too much as a limbo time, at times a limbo that doesn't matter. That is wrong and, in a way, cruel of me. I don't want to waste away a year simply to see what comes next.

There are nexts every day.

I need to come back to myself in this way. Not carrying guilt about all the days I haven't written, but with openness, open to carving this space of mine, and the days ahead, with life and words.