remember

There are times when I get very pensive and reflective and I find it quite necessary to reminisce. This compulsion often takes priority over eating, sleeping, and doing homework, regardless of how hungry or how tired or how behind academically I may be. I feel this powerful urge to remember.

In these moments, I like to reread my journals. It's almost surreal in a way to read the words that I once wrote. It's a bit like going back in time and meeting myself, except that old version of me is not myself. My old journal entries represent who I once was and what I once felt. They tell me of the things that I once did or once said. But they don't tell me who I am now. Rather, they show me the road I've traveled to become who I am today. Someday I'll look back on the things that I write now and see how my experiences and thoughts helped shape me into a different version of myself. A version I'll someday become. A version I'm in the process of becoming.

Sometimes reading over the words of my past, I am struck with an odd sense of detachment. Just yesterday I was reading about events from my past and found myself thinking Well, I forgot that had happened. And they weren't minute details of everyday life. They were firsts, milestones, and accomplishments. They were people and places and deeply moving experiences. They were superlatives--the best, the happiest, the saddest, the worst, the most confusing.

And I'd forgotten.

I think that I write and reminisce so much because I'm afraid I'll forget. I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up wishing that I'd taken the time to record my feelings, my accomplishments, and my daily activities. So I write it all down. Obviously I miss things. There are large chunks of my life that haven't been recorded simply because recording everything would almost take longer that the actual experience took. But I try my best to capture the best moments. The people who've changed my life. The inspiration I've had in dark moments. The pure joy I feel when reflecting on my blessings. The things I've realized after weeks or months of years of searching for answers and guidance.

My journals are full of words. Some are sloppy and almost illegible, written when I was either too tired to hold my pen straight or too full of emotion to slow down and write more clearly than a seven-year-old. Some are happy. Some are boring. Some are full of anger and bitterness. Some are capitalized, underlined, or paired with smiley faces. Some are the reflections of what I wish to be true or who I wish to be. But no matter what the words are, no matter how they differ, no matter how many handwriting specialists you may need to decipher them, they all have one thing in common:

They are all mine. 

I will never stop writing my words. I will never stop reading them. I will always do my best to remember.