I remember when I held you in my arms for the first time. After buying a series of books, you were given to me free of charge. You even came with your own set of a lock and key. My writing pattern was irregular, but you are living proof of my life. The picture may spark memories, but the pencil is still in my hand. I embed my feelings into your former blank pages. Even today, I remember what year and time I wrote in the page. I was 5 when you came into my life.
Every year, I rediscover you. Taking the pen in my hand, the ink emits off your pages. I remember having other diaries. But their pages remained blank. How did I choose you to be the one I write in? The one I dedicate my time and years to? You’re just like them, aren’t you? But you’re not. Are you a virus? Or an angel?
Somehow, you survived middle school. You even survived high school. Now, I will be entering college. I grasp your felt cover once more. There is only one question I have left to ask. Do I take you with me? Or do I leave you behind?
I was thinking of leaving you behind, at first. To keep you at home so you wouldn’t lose your way. That’s what I thought would have been best. But when I unlocked you and rubbed my fingers across your pages, I changed my mind.
When the school days dwindled and graduation drew nearer, I received a letter. It was a letter from my freshman year. I couldn’t remember the assignment, but the content was about my future. My freshman innocence was almost laughable. I soaked in the letter, remembering how I used to be. And then I found it. The reason why I write.
I write for myself. I write from my heart. I write for the ideas. I write for the dreams. I write for the possibilities. It gives me the courage to continue. Encouragement to no longer desire failure. But to embrace success.
With that, I have answered my own question. I give you one last glance. I bring you into my chest. So even you, diary, can understand what my heart needs.
I’m taking you with me. I’m taking you with me because I want to remember.
You are the reason I began writing. And the reason I continue.