I’ve always said that I am going to write my own book. “This adventure will go in my story.” “This crazy time is just a chapter in the many volumes I’ve recorded of my life.” “The story of me”
I wrote religiously for years since the 4th grade. Journals upon notebooks upon scrap books. Diligently, I documented the life of me. I was doing something every day that I was going to use in the future.
As time goes on, I began to get lazy in my record keeping. Years that took multiple journals were now condensed to one per year. And the cause for most of my tardiness was many life altering changes occurring simultaneously in my life. All of a sudden I was sharing my life with multiple people who are eternally connected to me.
There was also a sight tinge of cynicism. “Who would want to read about my life?” “What mind-blowing revelation do I present to the world?” “Who really cares?”
And now I am at a point in my life where I actually don’t give a shit of who cares or not, I am going to write that story of me for me.
(Why not?!? I am already at a crossroads and I might as well dive right in to the moment.)