Every year I never fail to have a journal / planner. So far, I managed to throw all my previous planners, two days ago, I just ditched my 2014 Paulo Coelho. If you’re wondering, I tore the pages into pieces; I still couldn’t risk someone rereading my life story and mumbling.
I am starting to question if this practice is my way of growing up that I do not dwell on the past since reading the old entries only stirred sad emotions that shatter my present. My definition of being able to live in peace now is not reminding myself with words that I could go back to and relive the whole moments in my crazily vivid mind.
If one day I will be a famous person and they try to trace my life through my journals; I guess they will be greatly disappointed that that the oldest journal so far that I keep since May 30, 2010 sporadically is a single file saved in my personal laptop that is password protected (yes, easily hackable).
I am still alive, gracious that I still wake up every morning, and I better perform that the fruit of my labours should be enough testament of who was I when I was alive; and maybe they will know me by the people I have been in touched with. Or who cares about legacy as long as I know that in every single day that I live I will go to bed without regrets because I have done what I love, I have created something, and just hopefully touched at least one person to make his/her life magically better than it was.