I dug around in the attic at my parents house today. I found stacks of pictures and boxes of old toys, some artwork I made in my highschool art class and… a journal.
It turns out I kept a journal for around 9 months when I was 16-17, writing in it nearly every other day. Not much, just a paragraph or two about what I did each day, and a spiteful teenage thought here and there. But just the first few pages have already brought back loads of memories, of events and people I’m sure i’d have never thought of again without it.
It makes me wonder how much of my present life I’ll remember in 15 years if I don’t write it down. Will the friends I have now fade into the mists of time? If I weren’t writing down the memory of digging around in the attic and having these thoughts revived, would this memory itself fall into the void ten years from now?
I wonder how much I’ve done and will do that I’ll never remember. And if it’s a private moment experienced by no one but me–a secret thought had while alone that fades from my mind, then that moment has been erased from existence, and the me that lived it might as well have never been.
Anyway, that is all to say that I think I’d better start keeping some kind of journal again, if only to keep my memories alive. I know the future me would appreciate it greatly.