Once in a while I come across one of these old journals, and I like to sit and peruse it. Seems I often had a man I was writing about. My adventures and misadventures written out.
There was someting so comforting about going to my journal, picking out the right pen, and settling in for an evening's write. I could write for hours.
I often wonder what will happen to my journals after I am gone. Probably be put out with the rest of the trash. I'd like to think maybe my niece would keep them, to remember me by. Where will all my words go?
I know I wrote often when I was feeling down, so the volumes of journals I have make me think I wasn't feeling too up a lot of the time. But that's not true. My journal days were amongst my happiest times.