Sometimes journaling is just about the process. It’s like doing your stretches, or meditating. It’s just healthy to do even if it doesn’t " produce " anything.

Conversely, sometimes I’m motivated to step outside my comfort zone because I’m looking forward to the diary entry I’ll get to about it later.

I have been using my journals to vent about things. I also use the journal to write ideas down that pop up at random moments. I have two more blank books for writing story scraps. Sometimes though in my main journal, I mentally wander off and daydream on the page. Yesterday I was feeling sick. I have been dealing with a chronic illness for the last year or so. On the page I started daydreaming and was thinking about how hilarious and messed up it was that consumption/tuberculosis was seen as a “sexy” illness way back in the day, especially between the Regency and Victorian era. I drew a nonspecific character in their sick bed, with dudes in suits around them professing their love and admiration. “Ooh damn girl, you’re gorgeous.” The sick person is like “Whut? Bro I haven’t had strength to even bathe myself. I am marinating in my filth.” They ignore them and are painting the dying sick person and writing in their book tearfully saying “So beautiful. The inevitable poetry of decay!” The painter says “I must paint this fleeting beauty” while sick person is wheezing “Send help…water…laudanum…”. So in other words nothing happened today cause I was too out of it, but I entertained myself with some silly drawings. :P

Like promised here is a fw more infos on my fascinating daily live and journal ;)

I did not walk on the Moon, I never sailed the 7 seas hunting for hidden treasures, did not invent a cure against cancer or to cure the world pandemic of absolute dumbfuckery that’s raging. I also did not redo the 1812 Bérézina campaign either—don’t look too far, I just read Sylvain Tesson’s Bérézina in which he retells how with a few friends, during a winter, on their motorcycles they kind of reenacted the terrible 1812 Napoleonic army retreat from Moscou to Paris, fleeing, even more so than the Russian army, the atrocious Russian winter.

My daily live is made of little routines, meeting not that many people. But I still keep a journal and have been doing so, with some pauses, for the last 40 to 45 years.

Like I said in the introductory post, what matters is what’s going in my head not the size or the bright colors of whatever I write about. I will write about Trump acting like a dick with Zelensky (where I see that coming from and what I see coming out of it), as I will write about the weather or about that odd looking brick sticking out of the wall of some house on one random street I passed through that same day. Anything. Here is a sketch I made of birds footprints in freshly poured concrete, with people passing by, last June:

And that amazing sketch, in which there is not even a hint of playful colors, with another sentence mentioning we were expecting to receive our new bed-frame, is the sole entry for that day. I don’t mind my journal being uninteresting to anyone but me. Why should I? It’s my journal.

Would it be more exciting to sketch, say, my moon boot leaving the first ever footprint left by mankind on the surface of the Moon or, I don’t know, explain in a few paragraphs how I resolved Ukraine’s war by forcing all the involved leaders to fight themselves, not by using interposed armies, fully naked save for a few feathers stuck in their ass and the diving fins they would be required to wear? Maybe ;)