I’ve been cleaning out my bedroom in the attic. I found a box filled with the journals and composition notebooks in which I have been writing since I was a kid.

There are enough notebooks here to fill several shelves on my bookshelf.

My handwriting has changed a few times over the years. I notice the influence from the handwriting of other people that I used to imitate, the way the shapes of the letters change when I’m distracted, tired, rushing, peaceful, upset.

I don’t always write to preserve memories. I nearly always write to escape.

A predictable side effect of writing to escape is a *mostly* accurate record of several years of my life, occasionally interrupted by notes from classes I’ve taken in high school and college.

I used to read the things that I wrote a long time ago and cringe, feel embarrassed.

I randomly select an old notebook, let the pages fall open.

Still the same voice.

I read letters from my past selves with much less unkind judgement than I used to.