Hey there, Georgy girl.

I used to be the type of person, who, when struck by deep thought or desperate poetry, would get out of bed and write it all down. I would stop studying to write for an hour (oh really? Yeah, you are looking at a 2:1 writing to studying ratio throughout college). I carried a small, blue-papered journal and a faux Montblanc pen with me wherever I went for years, just in case I had to document something.

I have notebooks and journals filled with drivel, occasionally accented with poignant or otherwise expertly crafted prose. I haven't the heart to throw the pages away, and I haven't the stomach to go through them again to find the good stuff. I remember penning a lot of what I thought was pain, surrounding things like boyfriends, and breakups. Deciding What To Do With My Future was always a rabbit hole good topic for self-reflection, and my favorite, lamenting "lost moments" which took quite a bit of my mind too, though what I thought I'd lost at 19, or even 21, I can't be certain.

I know there are some events documented there that are worth remembering through my words instead of my visual memory. I admit it would be interesting to see how much the same I am, and how much I've grown. But as I reach for one of those wire bound, heavy covered lined notebooks,  I almost think it may be better to keep those pages closed. Right now I can remember myself however I want, and as long as I don't say any of it out loud no one can contradict my memories! I was brilliant! I was beautiful! I was going places! I...

I think I'm going to let that girl be for just a little while longer.