I started keeping a journal in 1978, when I was twelve years old and entering seventh grade. Whenever I filled up one notebook, I started writing in another, saving each one and collecting them in a box that has traveled with me through many iterations of self.
Every now and again I will open the box and lightly sift through worn memories, stopping just as my synapses begin to overheat with emotion of one sort or another. There are letters in the box as well, and a few pictures, along with several artifacts from my not-so-wayward youth. From time to time I resolve to study the memories, in search of a missing puzzle piece to complete some picture of myself that is, undoubtedly, lacking.
Now I am bringing the box into the real light for no other reason than to remember what I am bound to forget someday soon. Onward.