I wonder what kind of space my journals take up in my psyche.
I’m hanging onto them. Not really letting go. Shredding a little at a time. I don’t need them nor do I want them, but I still have them.
Is all of the pain and anger and sometimes happiness of my pages in my psyche?
How do you envision your pysche?
I like to think of mine as a bunch of rooms in my head. Some rooms are bigger than others. Some rooms are painted neon pink and have happy stuff in them while other rooms are dark and dingy.
I visualize the room where my journals are is dark and full of spider webs. The door creaks when I open it. The chair in the corner has a dead fly laying in an inch of dust. In the corner across from the chair are the bins my journals are in. The tops of the bins are covered in dust. There is a single light bulb in the middle of the room with a pull chain. I think I was going to read them at some point, but never got around to it.
Is there negative energy in the room? Or is it just stale and heavy?
Is holding onto my journals holding my back from something I really want to be doing….like writing more?
What would this room look like if I shredded my journals? Maybe there would be daises painted on the wall and a cd player in the corner with some chanting cd’s next to it. Shelves with all of my books on one wall and a big overstuffed chair on the other. My desk in the corner.
I know I’m probably getting carried away, but I have been thinking about this for awhile.
I think as I shred my journals something opens in me. I think that part of me is going through a transition The space that my journals occupied empties and fills with something else.
I wonder what that something will be.
I will keep you posted. 🙂
Have a great Thursday.