The Greats will tell you that starting a journal nurtures self-improvement. I'm not sure if that's true, but when I take a snapshot of what's inside my brain it's a blurry swirl of thoughts, tastes, and sounds. Snapshots of a roasted pig's head on a dinner table, the smell of campfire on my jacket over the lurking anxiety of a client meeting at the end of the week.
In the spirit of 2016, and the increased presence of physical symptoms relating to stress and anxiety, I figure why not give this whole 'journaling' thing another try. Maybe it will help cure the suffering nostalgia of how much I used to write and create. Maybe it will sort out some of the streaky visions constantly projecting onto my brain and give me some kind of revelation— or maybe it will just help me sleep better.
Resolutions are funny. We pick a day on the calendar to serve as the starting line for change. Most years it's a cold day. An I've-been-eating-like-shit day. A hungover day. But still somehow an optimistic day. The oneness of it all— the first day of the first month gives us a hard line in the seamless flow of time. We need numbers to organize things that are hard to wrestle with, just like we need a cup to hold water. Maybe that's what this could be.
As of today, I am a designer and owner of Onyx, a design studio. We are a team of nine-full timers. I live in Echo Park with my girlfriend Stephanie in an apartment hidden among the hills and trees. We're looking for a dog. I'm 29 years old. I've always been terrified of getting to 30.