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I don't have a reason for your mother's empty journals, but I have a reason for mine. Though all my journals are not empty there are many days that are are. I have Not recorded so much of my life that I should have and wanted to and thought about but when I put the pen to the paper the words would not and do not come. I might be sitting there crying, with emotion and unable to express what I'm feeling through word. I tell myself I'll remember to write it later or that it was such a powerful experience how will I ever forget it. But I do, eventually and it goes unrecorded.
Words and thoughts are such distant relatives. Thoughts take on emotions and lives of their own without language. Words are so defined and finite. Words are a frightening way to summarize the magnificence of being.
I journal - or rather I try to - but I find I am journaling the mundane and everyday activities of my life, not the monumental moments that make it memorable to me. And really who wants to read that? My heart holds the deepest part of me and the combination of letters, words and sentences just never seem to convey my feelings.
As I write this I am crying with an ache to express what I feel, your story touched me in a way I am still exploring. If nothing else it will encourage me to be a better journalist of my own life and passion.
Thank you.