I hate journaling.

 You know why I hate journalling?

 Cause I think the people who like it, aren't doing it right. 

Perhaps if everyone faced the issue of snot and other forms of liquid fighting with air in their nasal cavity every time they journaled, they wouldn't like it so much. 

You want catharsis, Cathy? Just tell the baker you don't like his bread. Journaling is for the baker you just dissed. Not for you. You know why? Because you have processed, and you have excised. You have nothing to journal about. The baker however... they have many things to process... if they so choose. But activating gluten is more rewarding so honestly I don't know if non-artisanal bakers care too much about journaling. The ones who make miso-browned butter cookies definitely spend their time between bakes journaling for fun. I'd hardly call that journaling though. Baking itself is work with your hands... so does one need to journal when they're a baker? A carpenter? A Cook?

 But if I hate writing down my feelings down, why do I write this?

 The answer is simple. 

I journal for me. For me to examine, exact and extract. It's like popping a pimple. Just less fun (there's no exciting popping) and more painful (and there's no betadine or niacinamide or salicyclic acid to help heal the bits you've torn open, or make it appear less scarred). Every time I journal, my best friend knows. They know what the aftermath of grief does to my eyes. They know the weight of my soul before, during and after. 

And yet, I need to sit with these feelings and write. 

And every time I look at the past too intently, I feel my own pain. Sometimes it's too much.

So I write for you. 

That way I can edit, put some space between what happened, how I felt, and how I tell you what happened. 

Now is that journaling or writing for profit?
No idea.
All I know is that it's cathartic in a way that sometimes gets pus out of a wound, and sometimes doesn't leave a hole in my chest.