I started taking notes in paper journals in late 2010. At first, it was just a small hobby to help me kill time during endless shifts at a bookstore cash wrap, but I eventually embraced the habit and expanded from random notes to a regular daily journal. I’ve taken daily notes and never missed a day from then until 2025.
For the first ten years or so, journaling felt like an extension of my life. I knew exactly what I wanted to write; my notes were thoughtful and long, filled with daily observations and small details that allowed me to easily recall how I felt and what I did. My memory even improved. It became significantly easier to track my life and feel like it was truly happening, rather than just a fever dream. I was able to stop, look back, and visualize past days as individual events instead of a vague blur. I think that ability to capture life in all its strangeness and elusiveness was what I valued most. I still remember some of those early entries, even though I no longer have access to the physical diaries.
But then something changed, and one of the most anticipated moments of each day turned into a chore. Was it that I had become an old, boring person? Unlikely. Or maybe my days had sped up, filled with nothing but routine? Probably. But I feel the real reason was the war, which led to a quick, painful departure from my old life and the deconstruction of old habits. I simply didn’t know how to write about myself anymore. Everything felt meaningless and pointless.
Still, I kept writing for another two years. The entries became shallow. I started leaving gaps, then painfully tried to reconstruct what had happened and how I had felt during those missed days. Everything became generic, mundane, and dull. The largest gap I had, at the end of 2025, was about four months. I eventually filled it, but I guess it’s time to stop beating a dead horse and move on. I still want to write — it is a part of who I am — but I need to figure out a new process that suits the person I’ve become.
January 12, 2026