Pages Filled With Emotions

It’s 1985, and I’m in high school. Life is stressful. I spend a lot of my time alone. My home life is isolated. My school hours are spent studying. I keep to myself. I have my notebook and pencil as constant companions, and they are filled with pages of my thoughts and poems expressing my emotions.

It’s 1988. I’m getting ready to graduate from high school. My whole life is ahead of me, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. I write of the uncertainty I face. Empty pages fill with words as I consider my future.

It’s 1995, and I just met the man I would promise to spend the rest of my life with. Pages of notebooks are filled with the heavy emotions of love and future plans.

It’s 2005. He’s just been diagnosed with the C word. This time, the pages contain expressed worries and concerns. I write as I sit by his side through his chemo treatments. Finally, he’s OK.

Years pass by with random writings, daily journal entries, and even lapses where I didn’t even make journal entries. Without excessive emotion, there’s not a huge desire to fill those pages. I write poems for the fun of writing, but there’s no passion in them.

It’s 2017, and I have to leave the working world because of health issues. I feel useless and uncertain of my future again. It’s time to pick up the pencil and my notebooks once more. Pouring my thoughts into my pages, I release the emotions buried inside of me.

It’s 2026. The world is in chaos. People are blinded by hatred for each other. Factions are fueling the flames and causing division everywhere. It’s now impossible to tell what is real and what isn’t anymore.

I take up my pen again, and I write. The things I write about vary each day, but I write to keep my sanity. Some days I write about the things in my life that I love – my family, my friends, my dogs. Other days, I write about the way I wish things could be – a world full of love and peace and everyone loving everyone else without conditions.

I’d like to find a way to write to change the world to what it should be. If only I could reach the hearts of those so filled with hatred and animosity that they can’t see past it. But words like mine fall on deaf ears.

And so I write of my disappointment in people and society in general. How sorry I feel for those who are so filled with the blackness that they can’t find it in their hearts to be kind to anyone.

Writing is more than a passion with me. It is my solace when the world becomes too much. Writing is a revered friend when everyone is unkind and the world feel empty, and life feels impossible to continue on.

These days, I have exchanged notebook pages for Word-processor documents, but it’s still the same. It’s still me, pouring out my heart into words to clear them from my heart and mind.

I’m grateful to have such a release to keep me from being filled with the blackness myself.