I just read through the October entries of my blog archives from 2005 to present. Some of the posts I remember writing, and the moments described therewith are clear as day. Chimoio. Pria and Parceiro. Hugh Marlboro. Others I don't recall at all, and it's as if I were snooping through someone else's diary and life.
A lot has happened in the past seven years. I am glad I kept a written record of it, even if incomplete or edited for public consumption. Similarly I am happy I started writing paper journals when I went for my student exchange to Brazil in 1997/98. I wrote diligently every single day that year, a perfect record of events and feelings and adventures. I kept writing afterwards, filling volume after volume of blank-page books well after I'd graduated college. I have them all, stored in my desk shelves, waiting for the day when I have time to digitize the years and years of words.
I like to read my old journals, to look at how my handwriting has changed (or not, as it is the case), to remember the specific pens I used, how I had mastered the art of writing in a straight line while on a bus through the back roads of northeastern Brazil. I also enjoy reading my blog archives, but there is something about tangible paper and ink that makes the digital journal seem lacking.
Regardless, I feel satisfied in realizing that I've blogged over 1,200 entries. Something about that persistence makes me want to keep writing despite the decrease in frequency since moving to California and starting school.
So I will.