In the corner of my childhood bedroom sits a stack of journals about as tall as my waist. Black marble notebook on top of black marble notebook, mixed with the occasional moleskin or legal pad, in that dusty nook exists an exhausting, and haunting, log of my day-to-day existence since I was 14 years old. Some days were just lists, others were angry tirades, and sometimes they were tickets of gratitude. Now, in my Collegetown apartment, my stack keeps growing, it just looks a little different this time. Black marble notebook on top of an overpriced textbook, on top of a black marble notebook.
I’m not overselling it when I tell you that keeping a journal is one of the greatest gifts you can give to yourself.