I am currently in the midst of a lifelong love affair with the written word, with crafting stories, with collecting and documenting the moments of my life. Those who know me well know that I've been writing for decades. Some of my earliest memories of writing are from kindergarten, first grade--where we all kept journals in spiral bound notebooks, simple prompts from elementary school teachers... and at home, make believe in the form of word documents on our old family Macintosh computer. It's been a part of my being for as long as I can remember.
But sometimes you grow older and your priorities shift, and sometimes you lose sight temporarily of the things you love. Over the last few years, I haven't spent as much time journaling and writing fiction and poetry as I did when I was younger... maybe it's because of work, maybe it's because I've been focusing on other things, I don't know. As I've mentioned in this space, one of my goals for the year is to write more, and so far, I feel like I have done a good job of keeping up with this. Writing is a luxury for me, but it is also something that can, and should, be a part of my regular existence.
The word "finish" reminded me of the many paper journals I have started and left unfinished. I'm pretty sure that in this apartment alone there are 4 different notebooks I have spread my thoughts across. 4 different notebooks that I didn't finish. I've never been a finisher of notebooks. Some might consider this a fault, or a character flaw... but I don't really. In a way, I think it's kind of symbolic of life and the journey we're all on in our lives. The words and stories unwritten, yet to be put down on those lined pages. My story is unfinished, the best yet to come. Who knows, maybe this current journal will be the one I fill completely. If I do, great! If I don't, if I move onto another notebook before I finish this one, it will just be another continuation of my story.