When I was younger (not THAT long ago, although it does feel like a lifetime away), I was obsessed about documenting every single thing that happened in my life. My diaries, and later on, online journal, was filled to the brim with detailed description of what happened that day. Things like
“A really cute guy asked me for directions to Hilton Hotel today. I didn’t know, so I tried ways and means to lengthen that conversation. ‘Sorry, I don’t know’ because ‘Hmmm… let me seee…’. He was really cute and he talked to me!”
I was obsessed about remembering. That was the only way I knew to find meaning in my life.
When I feel lonely or upset, I will go back to my blog and read about happier moments. I was never really an extrovert. When something upsets me, I don’t talk about it with friends. It was never my ’style’ to let anybody, not even best friends, know that I could be hurt. Someone once told me that they thought I was strong. I’m not. I’m just a normal girl.
My thought was – If I can read about happier times, and remember them, maybe they will happen again. Things will become better again.
