Pages of the past.

So what does one do with 5...8...13..18...21...25..28. 28 old journals? 

Journals that were once filled with your deepest, darkest secrets.
your triumphs and your hopes.
your fears and your defeats.
battles won and battles lost.

Pages of the past. 
Hundreds.

Journals that were once filled with what meant the most in your life, what was the most powerful thing in your life at that exact moment in time. 
Filled with stories you laughed over. Stories you wept over. 
Endless pages that describes in full detail who you are and what you have to offer the world. 

A single sheet of regular lined paper, brought to life with the ink of your ambitions. 

I was reminded of my constant journaling when I went into my sisters room this evening and looked behind her door and there sat a laundry bin FULL of my old journals. I asked her what they were doing there and she simply said that she saw them downstairs and she likes to read them. Made me think to myself, maybe what I wrote had more meaning then personal contentment.

I miss journaling so much. So much. 
I remember when I used to have journal days where I would take all things great that I had collected over those past few months, or even year. Clips of magazines, shopping bags, books, anything that caught my eye really. Quotes and Verses that hit home like a rock every time I read them or that had spoken profoundly into my life. 

One of things I remember the most about journaling was the two other girls that I journaled with. It was kind of our thing, what we did, who we were. "Oh! look at this picture; you should keep it for your book!" (They were never called journals, only books) or when we would be riding in the car and think of something, see something, or even hear something on the radio/in a song that sparked our thoughts and we had to jot them down right then and there. Well, I was able to because my book was always in my purse. No matter what, if I had to carry it with my own two hands, I would. 

Journaling meant so much to me. maybe I should pick it up again.
Start a new book, venture out on my own and just start. 
how liberating it was to just have a place to write. No one would read it, unless requested, it was like one giant secret.