A little while ago I was writing in my diary. Amazingly enough I hadn’t looked at the ratty old book in years. I opened the pages and found myself once more a young boy having migrated from my big city in a wonderful state to suburbia in a new state. Before pouring over the pages I wanted to update my status in my diary. I wrote a six page entry about what was going on in my life, it felt amazing to once more feel that happiness and relief from all the pressure. I couldn’t believe I had lost this wonderful thing in my life.

Then came the fun part, I looked back on past entries. In my horrible handwriting I conveyed the feelings I had as a young boy living in suburbia. My first entry I completely contradicted myself by saying, “I hate living here. The only place I like is the city. I love living here.” It was amusing to remember all these things once more. A little over two hundred pages of my life and I was able to read it all. I remembered the ups and downs at school. Arguments with my family, huge happenings in my life; birthdays, holidays, etc. There was fake cursive in the back and pictures throughout the diary and on the front pages. It was completely and totally me.

Yet a scary thought came into my head. What if I finished the diary? I had a new one picked out but could I ever stop writing in this one. These pages were no longer flimsy pieces of paper; they held the very essence of me. How could I let that go? So I keep writing every day, hoping to fill the pages to their fullest.