Ever since I received my hard-bound journal as a gift from my piano teacher after my first (not to mention nerve-wracking) recital, I've plotted my life out on pages and pages of my diary. It isn't limited to just one book, but each entry, whether short or long, adds up to many volumes - each a chapter of my life, tales of my daily adventures.
The medium of writing has changed throughout the years, from ugly, scrawled pencil handwriting in Elementary school to colorful markers in Middle school to pen in early high school. It has showed how my character has shaped in writing; reading through earlier entries, I shake my head at both my bad grammar and immature thoughts.
My diary gives me private space to organize my thoughts. It was always there for me when I wanted to rant. When my words ran dry, I filled the empty pages with drawings. It was through these books where I grew my dreams to the point. I would write about everything, from when boys liked me, when my nightmares screamed, when I found a new favorite song. My diary gives me something to look back - to think about my actions that day, and where things went wrong, I'll correct. Divulging fears, confessing moods, I would write about anything and everything that crossed my mind. Something about writing gave me a rush - that my life was saved within pages of journaling.
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