When I was unpacking my life, I came over a box filled with old memories - postcards, sea shells, a pair of pointe shoes - and my old diaries. Now I have never really written a diary, just made countless of attempts, usually ending after a few weeks with me just forgetting all about it, getting tired of it or, more than once, getting annoyed at my handwriting (a bit of OCD there?).
Reading these old notes was a painful, embarrassing experience (I guess I'm not old enough, or self-distanced enough, to find my teenage self something worth reminiscing about), but it got me thinking about one little thing. If blogging is the modern, very exposed way of writing a diary, it has one positive side: I never wrote in my diary unless something bad or upsetting had happened (teenage love-drama, anyone?), whereas I mostly write about small stuff that made me happy in my blog. (Someone could point out that I've only written in my blog a couple of times since I got home from traveling, and that no-one is sad when traveling - but I say so far, so good. Let's keep it this way, ey? All too often we focus on the bad stuff, and forget all abut those magical little moments that make life so very much worth living.)
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