Sitting here on the couch on my day off, I got to thinking.
When was the last time I wrote something of substance?
My first journal was given to me as a gift when I was about eight years old. I filled it with stories of my childhood best friend and I. There are a lot of doodles on those pages and I never finished it. It had a dark blue cover with damask markings in various shades. I still keep it in a box in my closet with all my other dozens of journals. The exact number of notebooks escapes me, but the giant box serves as a reminder that I used to write...
My hopes, my dreams, my life.
I am most positive a majority of those journals are filled with random crushes and girl drama.
The digital age hit me when I was...nineteen? Xanga was my choice. It was my first experimentation with public documentation of my skewed perceptions. Someone posted a comment calling out my persona and it dissuaded me from posting further. My account does not exist anymore. Maybe it is for the best.
Today I was trying to delete a Facebook event from my page and it wouldn't let me. Facebook will not allow it, because someone else created the event. This makes no logical sense to me, but it serves as an important lesson of posting on the interwebs.
All of my twisted thoughts in my paper journals are easily burned or shredded beyond recognition. Online postings never fully disappear. Once revealed, they are not forgotten.