If you’re anything like me, you’re forgetful, which seems to matter most at times of reminiscing. When a neglected memory is accidentally stumbled upon in the dusty crevices of your mind and brushed off to be once again remembered. It’s a little shocking really, kind of like re-discovering yourself. Nonetheless, forgetting really sucks sometimes. After discovering one memory, I tend to then wonder how many I’ve forever forgotten, which is why I actually kind of love receipts, those little papers everyone has stuffed in their pockets, their purses, they reappear out of thin air to flutter to the ground and scream for attention.
Receipts are kind of like small reminder notes. I look at one and it’s a doorway to another day, another time. I remember little things, small quirks, and snippets of conversation during that outing, and it brings me happiness. Then I write about it, making sure it stays put for the future.
Sometimes, when I journal, I question myself. Do I really want to write down these memories? Do I really want to record my life in these pages? How long do I keep doing so until I’m satisfied? What’s the point when I’m inevitably going to die?
It’s a depressing matter, and I have no concrete answers. Many of you, I hope, who journal like I do, have also come across these questions, and maybe some of you have taken the approach of wanting to leave a story after your departure, for your grandchildren’s children, but I’m still in the midst of my teenage years, and journaling to me right now is merely recording for the future.
I actually picture myself one day sitting in a rocking chair with my husband at my side, laughing and reading my past, a stack of journals in front of me. Maybe that’s what I’m really shooting for. I’m sure there’s a list of reasons why, but really, I think for most of us, it’s just a blast to journal and be able to creatively express ourselves. It’s happy time, venting time.