“She journaled frequently – what did I learn from this particular situation in relation to myself. These question helped her understand herself much better.”

She is a lioness with calming behavior of dignity.

She is a blessing that will be honored and missed by the void in the hearts and souls forever.

She holds a light within her which is a streak of beauty and abundance.

I take conscious initiative to self love my existence for better moments.

I pledge to set standards of what is acceptable to my sanity and what to phase out.

Every wind brings chaos and toxicity but it is upto me to transform with grace.

I will stand firm and tall like the sunflower and away from the line of damage.

I am a garden, that will only allow kindness and compassion to take roots.

Rise with the fire of survival and make the soul proud.

Grow from the fall of the game that was dealt as a lesson.

Slowly go forth with the drive to excel with compassion and intellect, far more beautifully than the fire that was to set ablaze the existence.

I understand that if it hurts, which it does immensely, I was being thawed, I was healing and blooming to feel and embrace the pain, so that I would grow from the seeds and roots of my story, into a tree of inspiration.

I am a woman whose realizing her aura, capacity and capability to thrive and excel, a woman who knows what personal feats are while branding her mark professionally and passion based.

Keep your senses on alert but let go of the burning fear, as you replace it with powerful faith.

The wings of hope, carries gracious grateful genuine smiles, of memories that paint the path of memory, with faith as a strong foundation.

Rare human beings have advised me genuinely on this earth and they are my treasures to cherish.

In those happy days when leisure was held to be no sin, men and women wrote journals whose copiousness both delights and dismays us.

A journal should be neither an echo nor a pander.

Every journalist owes tribute to the evil one.

If you are looking for a kindly, well-to-do older gentleman who is no longer interested in sex, take out an ad in The Wall Street Journal.

To do that I knew I had to learn French. In order to practice I started to write journals in French. The effort I made to master what I regarded a bad thing – a language owned by the rich Moroccans – brought me the ability to write.

Lost journals are steps back home, like the mending of broken bones, like scars that act as patches to my soul, like the measurement marks on my mother’s wall that show just how much I’ve grown.

My parents were journalists and friends with writers, artists, and just a really interesting assortment of people, so I was exposed to all lifestyles from a young age.

After the writer’s death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.