Once, in the twilight of time — before quills and scrolls — words lived only in the breath of shamans and the embers of fires. I picture an ancient hunter carving the figure of a deer into a cave wall — not a trophy, but a memory. A mark. Perhaps that was the birth of the journal: an attempt to not be lost in time.

Even in the oldest cultures, we find the same impulse — to make sense of being through a trace. Through recording. Through story.

The first scripts — Sumerian cuneiform, Egyptian hieroglyphs — served power: battles, harvests, laws. But alongside them appeared something else: private, intimate writings. Not meant for glory — just for the self.

In ancient China, scholars recorded their thoughts on Heaven and Humanity. In Heian Japan, noblewomen wrote nika — personal observations where the ordinary became poetry. Sei Shōnagon’s The Pillow Book speaks of spring entering the emperor’s palace, of hearts trembling from glances. A journal as art.

Reading her, I feel centuries vanish — but not the need to be heard, even just by paper.

In the Middle Ages, personal writing faded. But during the Renaissance, “books of life” reemerged. These weren’t tales of heroism, but raw chronicles of doubt, sorrow, and search.

In the 16th century, Girolamo Cardano wrote about loss, fear, and despair. He started as a doctor, ended as a philosopher. Michel de Montaigne asked: “Who am I? Why do I feel shame? What is this weakness?”

These men were among the first to prove: strength lies not in armor, but in honesty. And the journal became their shield.

A Japanese legend says samurai would sit by the water before battle and write about their fear — not for legacy, but for release. Once fear is written — it loses its grip.

In Norse sagas, warriors carved runes onto wood to remember truth. In Greek myth, Orpheus sings and writes to preserve love, loss, hope.

Even Heracles’ labors are a chronicle: not of strength, but of transformation.

In the 17th–18th centuries, journals became instruments of introspection. Benjamin Franklin asked himself daily, “What good did I do today?” and thus built his ethical compass. Quaker John Woolman documented his battle against slavery and his own doubts — his journal became an act of peaceful resistance.

Philosophers like La Rochefoucauld used journals to explore human nature — beginning with their own.

In the 1980s, psychologist James Pennebaker discovered that writing about emotions for 15 minutes a day improved immunity, mental clarity, and learning. Neuroscience later showed that journaling activates the prefrontal cortex — the seat of regulation and choice.

To write is to rewire the brain. To rebuild the self.

In the 21st century, when data overwhelms, journaling restores presence. Paper or app — it’s the encounter that matters.

A journal today is what temples and caves once were: a sacred space for inner dialogue.

I keep several journals: for ideas, for feelings, for gratitude. Like practicing with a sword — the more you do it, the steadier your hand.

That’s how MriyaRun was born. Not just notebooks — but transformational tools. Each journal echoes a hero archetype:

They are all maps. Toward the self.

They say all great myths begin with a question. A journal isn’t about answers — it’s about the courage to ask. To look back and say: “Here I am. Here’s my path. Here’s my meaning.”

In life, there are two ways to exist: drift — or keep a record of your journey. Those who write — do not lose their way.