I rarely look at my old journals. So rarely, in fact, that I sometimes wonder why I bother keeping them. Today, I was moving a volume from 1998 and dropped it. It opened to a page with a post card clipped to it.
The postcard was from me, to me, exhorting me to remember something that happened on a trip I was on. For reasons lost to me now, I was cryptic about the thing I wanted to remember. It’s lost to me now.
I read the entry it was clipped to, hoping that something in it would job my memory. The key was not there, but I found something else: the opening paragraph to a whimsical story. I remembered writing it. I remembered what inspired it. I remembered where I intended to go with it. I have no idea why I abandoned it. The next few entires don’t even mention it. Pity. It was pretty good.