I chanced upon my old journals last night, as I was cleaning out my closet.
You could say that these were my “skeletons”, as they revealed a side of me I wasn’t proud of. Not only was Young Me an atrocious writer with horrible grammar, he also came off as a Walking Penis with a Brain. Mind you, this was from 6 years ago, when I was still in college. Distractions of youth is partly to blame, but only by a little bit.
Some excerpts from my 2009 journal:
“_______ is hot. I wonder if I have a chance with her?”
“Went to a party. Lots of hot girls there. Awesome time”
“(basically a caricature of someone, with lady parts exaggerated)”
Great journalling there from an aspiring writer. I couldn’t even string a couple of words together to form a creative thought. Young, College Me was a sex-obsessed douche, which is only marginally different from what I am now (sans the “young” part).
But Young Me DID get something right, and it was that he wrote often, even if it was just snippets. The same can’t be said about Current Me. The last blog entry I did was about a month ago. Granted, I write privately on the side for personal consumption. But I’ve yet to develop this into a habit, and that’s what worries me.
Back to the journal. I loved reminiscing about the past, trying to interpret what I meant back then with my more cryptic entries (just a guess: it’s probably connected to sex). For a brief moment, I was brought back to relive my most cherished memories: to when I was in Grande Island, consoling a distraught friend by the poolside while our orgmates loudly partied in the distance. Or to the terror I felt facing the selection committee, being interviewed for the editor in chief position.
Reading those convinced me to get back to journalling regularly, to try to capture the stories i’ll have this year (the more fun ones I’ll share here and some i’ll take with me to the grave). I have a feeling that 2015 will be a time of transition and many change. And documenting all that will help me reflect on the year that was.
If nothing else, I’ll return to journalling so that Future Me will have something to read that will make him slap his forehead and realize what a dork I was. At least not a sex-obsessed one but dorky nonetheless.