The Death of the Daily Journal

I never decided to keep a journal until June 12, 2015, the day I graduated high school. It
was not that the occasion inspired me. Unlike the majority of my classmates, I did not cry. When
I walked across the stage, I did not feel bittersweet or sad; I was worried about taking the
diploma and shaking my principals hand at the same time. I felt generally indifferent, as I often
ironically feel. Clanking around the gym floor in my painful high heels, I hugged my family and
friends. Hundreds of Congratulations! filled the room. I started to feel a little more present in
the situation. Mary, a friend of mine who just happens to be seventy five years old, was the most
excited of all. Though she may be 52 and considered a senior, she has more energy than a
teenager. She said, I have something for you! I pulled a small journal out of the bag she gave
me. Its blue cover was sprinkled with butterflies, centered on the quote Kindness gives birth to
kindness. Its a quote by Sophocles. Not that I know who that really is, but I was grateful for
Marys gift and I like the quote. I wrote my first entry later that night. It was a why not sort of
decision.
After coming home to a bonfire, smores, and hanging out with friends, I started my first
entry a little past midnight. Technically, it was June 13 already, the day after I graduated, but I
ignored this. Perhaps the marshmallows and lack of sleep inspired me, because I suddenly felt
words on the tip of my pen, ready for my journal. After a few words, I suddenly felt paranoid. I
shamefully added Mom and dad, if youre reading this, please evaluate yourselves. It felt
juvenile, but it was a necessary precaution. Despite my emotional indifference a few hours ago, I
suddenly felt so many thingsjealousy, hope, eagerness. I wrote about how I envied my best
friend, who was voted to sing for the graduation ceremony instead of me. She sang a cover of
Home by Philip Phillips with the accompaniment of two acoustic guitars. It wasnt as good as

the original song, not that the original song was good, I passive aggressively wrote. As I
continued, I overcame that pettiness when I remembered a quote my friend Ted used in his
graduation speech. We know what we are, but not what we will be. It felt ridiculously
appropriate for the summer before college. I was so ready for things to change.
The next week, I had motivation to write every day. I had so much to say. On the night of
June 16, my entry was about petting my neighbors cat. Somehow I made this entry sound like an
epiphany; I recounted the smell of bleach and bathroom cleaner on my hands, the yellow glow of
the streetlight, and the cats purring. I found something beautiful in it. In a similar way, I found
eloquence when I told the story of putting in the wrong CD in the car. I was surprised by how
much I liked the accidental folk music. For other entries, Id doodle hearts and trees and flowers.
Most of the early entries were surprisingly full of vitality.
Throughout the rest of the summer, my entries reached highs and lows. At times, it
seemed like I had visions to write about. I described how I put on some goggles and looked for
lost treasure in the river behind my backyard. I tried to articulate how the sun filtered through the
leaves and cast rays of light into the water. It was hard to describe how awesome it was to me.
Most of the other entries were less picturesque. They said things like Today was okay, or
Nothing really happened today. Sometimes I drifted away from writing about my daily
experiences altogether; instead, I wrote about the new music I was listening to. Over and over, I
wrote down lines from songs that were particularly meaningful to me that day. A common line
was from a Neutral Milk Hotel song: How strange it is to be anything at all. Perhaps this was
not my journals intended purpose. Every now and then I still found pretty words when babbling
about my activities of each day.

By mid-July, I went from writing almost daily to twice a week. I just did not feel like it.
Later, when I would decide to write, the vigor of yesterdays experience was gone, so Id quickly
retell what happened. I started to lack depth. I was scared of forgetting my summer memories,
but my eagerness for the journal was not enough to keep me writing. Id succumbed to
summarizing the whole week with one entry, or not at all. I started thinking that maybe writing
or journaling- whatever this form of expression was- was not for me.
As I accepted that my little notebook was not as full as it should have been for the
summer, I came to realize that I had other ways of documenting my experiences. The most
obvious one was my blog. I use tumblr, which has become a popular blogging site for teenagers
over the years. I update my blog every day. It seemed irrelevant at the time; it was not as
sophisticated as a journal. Some of my friends say things like, Blogs are for hipsters, or
Thats a waste of time. Since then I have realized that things are just as valid online as they are
on paper. Did it matter that my blog contained jokes along with pictures, music, and the
occasional original post? I think that makes it more personal and multidimensional. I do love
writing, but I also love bizarre humor, photography, art, and music. My blog encompassed more
things that I love, and I was more faithful to it than the journal. Though I did not initially
consider my blog an online diary, it was that (and still is). Every day, I would post things
according to how I felt at the time. My blog was an unintentional, yet accurate documentation for
my summer.
Though perhaps not quite as frequent as my blog, I also realized that my songwriting and
art are like the journal as well. I do not write a song or draw something every day, but I can see
how they serve the same purpose at that notebook. Certain moments that I talked about in my
journal, such as the swimming in the river and petting the cat, I would usually reserve for paint

or a guitar. For example, once I had a complexly bizarre dream. In it, I saw my best friend
sleeping, and I could see his dreams. I found it so interesting. I wrote a song about it, but the
song was not the same style as the journal; I did not try to be eloquent or wordy. It was simple,
and I was very satisfied with the way it turned out.
Another time I sunbathed in my backyard for a few hours, despite my moms warnings of
Youll get sunburnt! I was just lying on a towel in the grass in 95 degree weather the things I
do for a tan. I could not focus on my book, so I was just zoning out and looking around my
backyard. The breeze was ruffling the branches of an oak tree and the bushes directly above me.
The sky was a perfect blue with big, fluffy clouds. Despite the heat and my restlessness, I found
the scene appealing and relaxing. I took pictures so I could remember it. A few days after musing
about the visual inspirations of that day, I finally decided to paint it. My painting did not
perfectly portray the scene, but I never try to paint hyper realistically. I like to add a bit of my
own touch. The painting is now hanging in my dorm room as a remembrance of the summer.
I think I have found the balance of when to write and when not to write. My last journal
entry was August 24th. I wrote about a party that I went to because it was a really fun
experience, and I simply felt the need to put it on paper. I have realized that I do my best writing
when I do not force myself; it is best if I just write spontaneously. Sometimes forced writing
feels like a self-inflicted injury. Obviously, that is not ideal. Self-expression should feel natural,
not painful. Right now, I am sitting in my dorm with a sweatshirt and a runny nose (because I am
sick, not because I am crying). Despite my run down condition, I can honestly say I feel good
because I have expressed myself through this essay, and it was not forced.