Semester Journal
Selected unedited writings, unfiltered thoughts, and unabridged ideas.
12/31/21
Someone once told me that the act of journaling every day is the making of a good writer. That great writers, they have great ideas. Inspiration strikes them at the oddest of hours, and they must work desperately to capture thoughts before they fade away. A great author is frantic and brilliant and inconsistent.
In contrast, a good writer can hold onto inspiration. They can file away thoughts to save for later, cultivate the ability to articulate those thoughts clearly onto page. A good writer practices. A good writer knows how to write. That way, one day, if they too are stuck with a moment of greatness, they can do good by it.
Good writing, like good living, takes discipline. It is working past motivation, past inspiration, and past fascination. It’s forcing yourself to exercise a skill, perform a task daily, especially when you do not want to. I think many great writers, those whose great thoughts resonate with people, look down upon good writing. They find that discipline kills creativity — maybe it does. But a good writer, if creative, can not only make their ideas resonate, but make each word meaningful.
I am not a good writer. Or a great one. I may not even be a writer at all. But the concept of discipline intrigues me.
Discipline. Simply put, I lack it in all aspects. I get bored easily, I’m flighty and fleeting. Inconsistent and forgetful — fluctuating constantly. Euphoria and Misery. Workaholic and loafer. I dance with extremes, exhausting myself with self-induced whiplash.
So, I decided to give discipline a go. It then became a matter of what discipline I should try. Waking up before seven? Going to the gym thrice a week? I decided that the discipline I choose should better my life. If it were to stick, I would want my new discipline to make me feel happy.
Therefore, the discipline I chose was one of perspective. I decided to journal every day for an entire semester. The topic could be of my choosing, and the text could be as short or long as I desired.
Four years ago, when I first got my drivers license, I would drive with all the windows down. I would let the wind toss my hair and kiss my cheeks. I would stick one hand out the window and feel the resistance push it back. I would sing and drive in circles to see the stars. In these moments, in transit, I would not be restless. I would not be thinking about what I had done thus far or what I would do once I reached my destination. I would not worry about things said, unsaid, or what I had planned to say.
I would simply drive. I would feel the breeze. I was present and peaceful.
The breeze carried my senses elsewhere. Water droplets racing down the side of windows after a car wash, the bass of the stereo sending vibrations down my arms, technicolor blue skies after thunderstorms, the sloped curves of the noses and calves of my passengers. Four years ago, finding beauty in the ordinary was that easy. All it took was waking up and seeing the world for what it was, not what it could do for me or what I wanted to do to it.
These days, beauty isn’t the foreground focus anymore, it hasn’t been for a long while. And it’s heartbreaking. I don’t know who I am anymore, suspecting I might never have known to begin with. All I know is that I was really good at seeing beauty, and that I once inspired others to do the same. That I was best when I was happy, infectious and joyful. And while I still actively present myself as such, it takes concentrated effort — It’s exhausting. I now believe, deep down, I’ve been profoundly unhappy, alone, for some time now.
I want to find life to be beautiful again. To feel happy. And this past August, I decided to put in the work to do so. To find “more” within all that I rush past, to write about it. To feel present in my emotions. To feel peace, feel beauty. I decided I wanted to dedicate my attempt at discipline towards bettering myself.
This was me, reaching out, the only way I know how, and trying to feel that breeze again.
playlists:
driving (feeling the breeze):
