Journals.

The smell of must filled my nostrils, as I was obediently getting a can of tomato paste for me mother who was making dinner in the kitchen upstairs. The concrete floor was cold underneath my rather large bare feet, and I wanted quickly to get out and gat back to my warm blanket in my bed. I found what I was looking for and turned around to run back up the stairs, until SMACK! my shins ran into a box and I stumbled over. What in the world was so irresponsibly placed in the middle of the garage floor?! I looked at the box, and had to do a double take to make sure that I was looking at what I thought I was looking at. But there it was, in all it's glory. The lid of the box read Andrea's Journals. I was dumbfounded. I didn't even notice my now numbed feet. All my attention was focused on this cardboard treasure chest I had literally stumbled upon. I took off the lid, reached inside, and pulled out a pale blue, rather skinny book with a kitten on the cover. I opened the cover and began to read.

It was the second journal I had ever purchased. I remember my first one vividly- it was pink with red and white hearts and had a plastic heart shaped lock that could be opened easily with or without the provided key. I was four years old when I had purchased that journal, and I spent my own hard earned money on it. Sixteen precious dollars! I had never had so much money of my own, and I knew it was to be spent wisely. But alas, it is lost, and this journal I purchased at the book fair in first grade is the oldest documents of memories and recollections I hold dear to me. I remember scanning the books, shelf after shelf, glossy covers shining at me, attempting to capture my attention. My eyes stopped in the untitled blue book, with the kitten that looked so much like my very own on the cover. I cracked open the spine, and saw not words of a story, but blank pages. It was a book for me to write my own story! How excited I was, that I, too, could write and create my own book for others to read.

Years later, after being stored away in box, I fell upon this journal as well as many other journals I had written from cover to cover in. It looked much different from when I first came into ownership of this treasure- the binding was practically diminished as there were scribbles all over the insides of the covers, the wobbly handwriting of a six year old. I cracked open it's weary spine once more, and read my own story.

I read about the time I had begun to read "big" chapter books such as the American Girls series. I came across the two pages that had been furiously scribbled upon, and recalled back to sitting in my first grade desk, writing in this precious journal in anger at the substitute teacher for that day, as well as some of the other students in my class. They had hurt my feelings, so I wrote down in my journal the intense frustration and anger that a six-year-old child is able to muster and understand. I was afraid, however, that either the substitute or a fellow student would take my precious book away from me, and i would be found out. My hand ached, and the side of my palm had a sheet of silver lead after U had finished covering the evidence of my thoughts. At least my secret would be safe under the graphite blanket that would hide my true thoughts forever.

Later, I returned to my box of ink stained pages and befan pouring through my history. My own stories. My own book, written with my own hand. Fourteen bound pages with all my innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. The boys who had captured my heart- David Stanley, the sixth grade heart throb who took the breath of every girl that laid eyes on him. Or Nathan Gonda, the older, cooler, curly haired beauty at my church who had no knowledge of my existence whatsoever. And Johnathon Magee.

Oh, Johnathon Magee. How could I have forgotten about him? He was so tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes and that almost black hair that slightly brushed his eyelashes. Johnathon Magee, the way his fingers swiftly flew over the fret board of his guitar. Johnathon Magee, with his words of wisdom and comfort in my times of sorrow and despair. How entranced I was by him. How often I thought of him. How long I had feelings for him. How often I had written about him. He made an appearance in five different journals. He had my heart entirely, and how badly I wanted him to be mine. But alas, I never could claim him as my own. I never won him over, and our friendship had ended after that act of betrayal from my so-called "best friend" that stole him away from me.

I read over so many experiences that I had completely forgotten. I would write daily, tell of my events for the day, write out my thoughts, share my secrets, write poems and songs and stories. As I got older and my handwriting became neater, my entries became smaller and less frequent. I would write less in my daily entries, then I would write only every few days. I started to come across unfinished entries, blank pages separating them for when I would go back and finish. I never did. My stories were incomplete, and then I turned the page and then-

Blank. A blank page. A little more than halfway through the bound pages with scribbled handwriting and pictures and sketches, the entries had ceased. My persistent writing, as well as my passion for it, decreased until eventually I had stopped writing altogether. It was when I had stopped writing that I had lost myself, and for years I was struggling with myself, and the emotional unbalances that had befallen me. I was lost and confused, frantically attempting to hold onto any loose ends I possible could of myself to remain one entity. I had lost so many, I began to feel as though I was no longer whole. I had forgotten just how passionate about writing I had been, and how good writing was for me. Therapeutic, in a way, when things didn't make any understanding in my mind, all I had to do was write on a piece of paper to make sense of the situation.

After seeing the blank journal, I knew it was up to me to finish writing in those weary pages. I cracked open the spine, smoothed my hand over the page, and began to write. Words flowed out seamlessly from my pen, my hand never ceased to keep moving from left to right and back again. Pages upon pages, the ink stained parchment, covering the side of my hand with smudged black ink. How proud I was! To know that I had begun to write again! With each entry, a new string came along and attached itself to me- a piece of myself I had lost before was restored. It was a strange but good sensation, the experience of writing again for the first time. And with each new piece I write, another piece of myself comes back to tie together those loose ends. I am not completely whole, but with each new piece that returns to me, each piece that has been restored, I learn another important factor about myself. I will never be whole, because as I continue writing, I will always be discovering who I really am.