There is a crate in the middle shelf of my closet—a slate gray crate speckled with smiley face stickers and butterfly emblems. Originally housing my textbooks in 4th and 5th grade, the crate now plays host to more than three dozen personal journals.

I used to avidly write in my journals, chronicling my upper elementary and junior high years by hand before I bought a computer as a sophomore. With the ability to write faster type, I quickly filled around forty-four spiral notebooks, sketchbooks, and fancy-pants diaries with infatuations, fights, vacations, and conversations that my mind managed to tape-record.

Once I was a senior in high school, I wrote more and more sporadically. It wasn’t like I didn’t have anything of importance to say…I just didn’t take the time to write as furiously as I once did. By the time I was in college, my journal-ing had become extinct.

That was two years ago, and I still haven’t picked my once-cherished hobby back up. Sadly, this blog is my only form of journal-ing, and I don’t consider it efficient enough.

I used to hold the belief that I would continue to narrate my life through writing, hopefully bestowing my words upon a daughter or granddaughter someday. I assume that they would learn many things—how I grew up, how I felt at certain times in my life, the trials and lessons learned while getting married, raising 2.3 children, and living in a stereotypical house with a white-picket fence. (You get the picture.)

Sadly, however, I am aware that many of the details that have occurred in the last few years of my life have faded. Though I can look at (past) journals I have finished and read entries about a conversation I may not otherwise be able to recall, I fear that many of the happy memories, numerous emotions, and other occasions of the last few years are lost. I cannot fill in the blanks, and it is distressing to think that the most significant occurrences in my life thus far are not recorded.

It’s also upsetting when I think about the fact that I’m not even writing about my time here in Indiana. Honestly, I’m not even sure if I could find too much of anything to say, with the exception of the two days we did plan (Symphony on the Prairie and the Fourth of July). Unfortunately, most of what we have done during my time here is inconsequential. A. says that it should be enough just to see him. However, I can’t help but feel that I’m wasting some of my time—I could be at home, actually trying to remain loyal to this blog and my once-important journal-ing, as well as keep my mother company, spend time with friends, and comfort a suffering friend.

Those things, to me, are more significant than sitting on a slightly uncomfortable couch watching TV or sitting on the bed, watching A.’s back as he spends precious hours on digg.com. However, I guess I could try and think along the same brain waves as him—after all, if I was in Iowa, I wouldn’t be able to sufficiently survey the contours of his back and shoulders.


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