Forgetfulness, I reckon you are a gift

A few days ago, I was able to clean up old stuff (out of necessity) since I moved to another dormitory. I had this big, dusty and heavy cardboard box filled with books and notebooks which I really wanted to get rid off, but I couldn't. The obsessive compulsive part of me wanted to ditch every dusty thing altogether while the sentimental part of me wanted to keep them all --you know, for the memories.

So there I went flipping and reading through
all the ancient journals I had. Some were 6 year old notebooks, the others I've written just a year ago.

What surprised me was this amazing skill I had. (I still can't quite say if it's a very unfortunate talent or a very special one.) See, I flipped through this notebook and read journal entries that I've written 19 months ago and I couldn't remember a thing. It was like reading about somebody-else's life in somebody-else's notebook, and that somebody had the same scrawny-beautiful handwriting as mine.

In the end, I threw away all the cute journals I had.

And guess what. An hour after the throwing-away-repertoire, I received a cute red-stripey notebook from my beloved room-mate, Ella. She knew I loved to journal a lot. And so I will write again. ^_^