I’ve always kept a journal. It’s my way of writing down what I feel and recording it for my own personal reference, it is my very own passport back to where I was and how I was feeling at that exact moment and time and I love it. I adore sorting through the archives of Erin and picking out a certain date and marveling at how I’ve changed or how I’ve stayed the same, how my grammar has improved or how I’ve completely forgotten and moved on from what once tortured me. I don’t care that people think it’s juvenile, it keeps me entertained and helps me unravel the tangled mess of my thoughts and I both cherish and lock it for that very reason. But what I like most is the fact that I typically type my journal entries every night past midnight and my computer wants to auto-correct it to the day it actually is. This small gesture of kindness and helpfulness from the mind of Bill Gates makes me feel like I’m reflecting on the past, which I am, but more importantly that the past is even further away. It makes me feel like what happened, happened, and I’m moving forward each and every second, this is my time to dwell and ponder, and after this I should wipe my hands and move on. The twenty second of January 2011 will never happen for me again. I will never relive this day that I’m crying about or wishing to end again. And a fair share of the time I am so beyond thankful for that. Maybe it’s narcissistic to want to record and look back on even the most insignificant parts of my life, but I don’t care because more than anything it proves that the only thing that will never change or judge or spill my secrets is my journal. My journal is my confidant, the only friend I’ve grown with, whose always kept my secrets, whose never made me mad, who I’ve never stupidly got a crush on. In spite of the previous fact, this is to my journal, I love you.