Attached are photos from a couple journals I’ve kept (shot in reverse chronological order).
I have kept diligent journals throughout the majority of my literate life.
I do not know exactly why I write, but I consider these journals to be my most valuable possessions. Maybe I ascribe this value because as I get older, I am starting to recognize that the only artifact that can be identified as “me” are my memories, and that memories are transient and unreliable. By writing down my experiences, impressions, and emotions, I am in a sense creating myself. Since I cannot trust my own self to recall elements of my existence, I have preserved that information as a physical relic.