when i was in college (freshmen or sophmore), i took part in one of those 'secret santa' things. the final gift i received from one of my floormates was very suiting. she gave me a journal for writing. she obviously knew enough about me to know i like writing and that i had a tendancy to write things on the sad side; inside next to the this journal belongs to, she added "only happy stuff." the journal is still empty.
i actually own a lot of journals. i'm not sure what it is about them; i see them in store and think they look so pretty and i know the potential they hold inside of them. most of them are empty; it is sad that the thought of that makes me smile and laugh at the similarity to myself...empty. i have picked them up, grabbed a pencil and sat down with the intent to write; sometimes i just pick them up with the thought of writing, but i don't.
here are these beautiful entities eagerly waiting to be filled and reach their potential and i can't do it. i'm feel lacking; 'you have been weighed, you have been measured and you have been found wanting' (a knight's tale). the fear of marring their beauty and their potential blocks me; i am unable to find my voice. maybe i need to do as i am here, forcing myself to put words together without fear of judgement; because after all who is going to find my words, my thoughts, my ideas of interest.