There’s something beautiful and inspiring about an empty journal. Seeing a cute and classic looking one in a store, and not being able to take your eyes off it is just a sign. There’s such promise in a clean slate. A start of something new. You’re able to say anything, write down your thoughts, draw, or a combination of the two. A place where you can remain anonymous to the world if you choose; keep it to yourself or even if you choose to share it please do.

The healing of your heart, mind, and soul begins when thoughts flow from your pen and on to the pages.

Yes, always pick up a pen. Unless you’re drawing in a sketchbook, journaling with pencil is a cardinal sin. It can be allowed if your pen has run out of ink and you’ve run out of options, leaving you with only a pencil. But only then is it acceptable.

Hurt, regret, uncertainty, laughter, pain, heartbreak, loneliness, and more can be told on the pages of a journal. The lines don’t judge, and the secrets are safe between the covers. When everyone else in your life leaves, the words flow and remain. The only place they escape is your mind.

I often need the release that journaling allows. I let my hold on my thoughts loosen until they jump onto the page, scattered and jumbled, and they slowly take shape. Words here and there are scratched out, some with a minor line through the middle, and others scratched to hell with no hope of remembrance or revisiting. They mirror my memories - some that I want to keep and cherish, other's being a shade of blue-gray that I’d rather forget about.

Some memories that are written or merely experienced are white, due to the blinding white, scorching sting of the past. When a family member took their last breath - and exactly where they passed, which haunts me to this day. When a loved one or friend decided to no longer care - but they placed the blame on you, when it was them who made the choice to change. They aren’t black, because I’ll always remember. But sometimes they appear black, because when I close my eyes, I try to forget.

I’ll always be thankful for the hurt. It allows me to stay up late and say hello to the pages - and fill them with thoughts by the lamp light, accompanied by the light of the moon.

Most of my writing -- my most honest work will happen at night. It’s when I’m most vulnerable, and most able to be myself. I sit alone and think alone, without outside influences to distract me or change my thoughts. No one to tell me to hush, or leave them alone.

The pages are always there to listen. They may not advise the way people do, but they give inspiration, sometimes right away, other times, down the road. The healing begins when my pen touches the paper - it’s magical.

Paper and pen will always be better than electronic writing. The beauty of actual handwriting is too strong to be ignored.