I used to blog.

I used to journal every day, if not more.

I used to write poems and stories.

Those days seem far behind me, now that I am busy with so many other things. Yet, I reminisce every once in a long while about the "good ol' days" of my childhood when I would take a pencil and notebook up to my bed or out on the front porch and spend awhile writing. How my mind seemed to overflow onto the college ruled lines of paper with thoughts, ideas, characters, and plots. Early on in life, it seems, I found a friend in blank pages.

Even now, though I have little time to record every detail of every day, I enjoy journaling the more significant happenings in my life. . .and sometimes the smaller events find their way inside my notebooks, too.

I am so glad I can read the various daily journals I have written throughout the years. They are as close to time travel as one can get, and I cherish the memories as they come alive once more. I wish to remember the memories of today, as well as those of yesterday and years ago, and so I dust off my current diary every week or so to write down things going on in my life right now. . .things - memories, thoughts, events, accomplishments - that so quickly will become fleeting memories.

I write about what has left an impression on me, what I have been involved in, what I am struggling with. These are penned into the journal of my life.

The rest is still unwritten.

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