Today is the first day of the uni mid-semester break, i finished my final major at 10pm last night and i'm already bored. Not bored in the sense that i have nothing to do, but bored in the sense that i cannot be motivated to do anything creative.
Today i looked through all the boxes under my bed and got out all my journals from ther age of 13 onward, the ones before that are either lost or indecipherable. Here they areSome of the old entries are very, very cringeworthy and some still make me sad to think that i was ever that upset. But writing has always been my favourite thing in the world to do, and i never want to forget that. And if it means never throwing out old diaries from the days when Blink182 was my favourite band and i wrote in txt abbreviations, then i will save them forever.
I remember i used to hide my diaries in the gap between the last drawer in my dresser and the floor so that my parents would never see them, but now i keep my journal on hand. Sure it's still private but i think if i died i'd want my friends to eventually read through my old journals Anne Frank-style. Not that i'm comparing myself to Anne Frank in any way, I've never had anything terrible happen to me, but in the fact that her father went back and read through her diary and finally understood what was going through her head. I have no idea what this post is about. Sorry. I guess i was trying to get to the point that i love to write but i still have no idea what i want to do with my life. I'd love to become a children's author but i understand the very slim chance of that ever happening. I no longer want to study journalism because i know i couldn't take the pressure. I'm starting to lean toward becoming a teacher or children's librarian, but at the moment i'm just wondering through here seeing what happens. I guess i don't know what kind of person i am yet. And this year i've finally realised that's ok.