The past couple of days, I’ve been rereading my old diaries and journals. Ever since I was in third grade, I’ve kept a diary of sorts. The first one is a tattered green book, the small ones with locks that kids keep, each day its own page. The entries are very simple. I went to school. I had recess. I went home.

My thoughts as a child were not complicated. I was still new. I didn’t overanalyze every moment, every thought. I wrote what went on in my day. And that was that.

A few years later, in a journal without a lock, with flowers on the cover, I was a different person, living in a strange town far away from everything I had ever known. I began to find my voice, my inner wonderer. And I began to write to Emily.

In the sixth grade I lived in Texas. One of our school projects involved researching someone in history we admired. I chose Emily Dickinson. I loved writing, poetry, and so did she. I instantly felt connected to her, and so from then on, my diary entries were written to her…Dear Emily. It’s something I continued to do for many years. I eventually gave this up and just started with the date, plunging right into my thoughts without any hesitation. But back then, I felt better writing to someone, rather than to the blank page.

My thoughts then always focused on my friends, the boys I liked, the usual teenage stuff. I was a silly girl and my writing was so fresh and young. At that time, I thought my writing was the best I’d ever read. Oh, to be so naive…I read my own words now and wish I could have written things better, explained more. I was not yet a great writer, but I wrote, and that was all that mattered.

My high school journals are ripe with musings about the people I knew, the things I did, and what I wanted to be. And it’s funny to read about things now, knowing how my story has progressed. At times, my old writings seem to know what was going to happen to me. I wrote about things as if I knew where I would be, now.

My best journal entries are contained in a large, unlined journal, with a cork cover. These are from my college years, the years when I was on my own, finding my space in the world, and trying to sort out my thoughts. I had lots of thoughts. And my writing is so much better at this point. I’ve matured in my writing…I’d found my voice, finally.

I have had several journals since then, but I haven’t written so frequently as I did in college. Until now. After reading through my journals, I realized how much I am missing by not writing, and so I am starting to write again. The pages are unlined, and I can record all my thoughts that I want to remember. Because at the end of the day, if I haven’t written anything, the thoughts and experiences I’ve had just float away. And I may one day forget they even happened.

But if I write them down, the words will always be there. And I will remember the woman who wrote those words, where I was, and what I was thinking. The journal acts as a time machine, transporting me back in time to the wintry night of my almost first kiss, the time when I climbed the tallest tower at UNH to watch the stars…sleepovers with friends, and also times when I was sad, or when something beautiful caught my eye.

It’s not always the best writing, and sometimes I disagree strongly with what I wrote (if only I knew then what I know now). But it’s me. The evolution of my thoughts. How I saw the world, even if it was from a limited view.

And someday I may even choose to share my journals with those who would appreciate them. But those people are few and far away. And even then, I’m not sure they’d be ready to read them. Not yet. I still have more to write, more of my story to tell.

Because I continue to evolve. And so does my writing. Let’s hope I continue to write in my journal so I can capture it all. And maybe one day, I’ll share it with you.

Journal Entry, undated, between December 5 and Dec. 9, 1996 (sophomore year of college):

“I think I know what I want out of life. I want to be a writer, first and foremost! I wish to have people listen to me, and understand what I’m really saying. I want to fall in love with a really handsome, tall, mysterious, smart and wonderful man, who actually loves me first. I wish to kiss someone before I’m twenty, someone whom I haven’t kissed before. I wish to get so drunk that I forget who I am, forget what I’m here for, and just be me. I want a space in someone’s heart, meant just for me. I wish to see my friends in Texas. I wish that I wasn’t so lonely and pathetic. I wish I could be something incredible. I want someone to just hold me. I wish to be in my own world, not the dreamworld.”