I unpacked a box the other day and found my old journals. All at once, I felt a surge of sentimentality. Which quickly passed after opening a random journal to a random page and its random thoughts.
I don’t know why I kept these books. Based on the single entry I read, I certainly wasn’t saving them for the content. In fact, I’m guessing that if I were to go through these journals, page by page, I’d find myself in the middle of a great big snooze-fest. Or a whine-a-rama. And if there is an entry worth revisiting, something to be gleaned from my past scribbling, it is surely rare.
But I have kept these journals. And though I may very well use them for kindling at some point, I will probably go through each one before letting them go. Because if I find even one musing worth saving, that will do. Maybe. Anaïs Nin, I ain’t.