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One of the benefits of having a blog or online journal is that it provides a record of your life. For people like me who have questionable memory, the online medium serves as an almost indispensable historical timeline over the years.

When I started blogging over four years ago, I really had no idea of what I wanted to do with writing. I am not a “blogger” per se with a niche in say, food, travel, technology, or even travel. I am just someone who finds a lot of joy in writing, whether it’s through a rant, a haphazardly written poem, some thoughts on personal matters, random epiphanies, or opinion pieces. Over my few years of “blogging”, I found myself having interacted with numerous individuals who are even more passionate with creative endeavours, and who inspire me to take this craft seriously (even though I have failed at it miserably).

You see, it’s always a thrill reading your old posts, especially with my “other” blog. My first few entries were written when I was still in university and I could afford to be frivolous, so reading them again makes me cringe seeing as to how I could have possibly allow myself to shared so senseless, lurid, or humiliating aspects of my life. Fast forward to a few years and I noticed a gradual albeit minimal refinement of my writing, and deeper appreciation for privacy and obscurity.

“What's past is prologue.”  ― William Shakespeare, The Tempest

“What’s past is prologue.”― William Shakespeare, The Tempest

I continue to rediscover poems that meant so much to me years ago, and find them still packed with emotions. There are letters dedicated to men I admired, and see them now as lessons learned the hard way. A few entries I continue to laugh at, while many others elicit an unexpected smile or a sudden confusion as I recall the circumstances behind the words.

It’s almost as if I am reading my heart when I look back at my blog’s archives – pieces of it scattered in between prose and poem; the whole of it embedded in some overlooked post on my family life; shards of it in entries where I bled in the sorrow of solitude.

While the past is something one must not indulge in, I believe it is healthy to wax nostalgic every now and then, and to reminisce about the times when I sought solace in writing – to spill out joys, to erase private disgraces or momentarily forget them, to occupy some emptiness within, to share things which amuse us, to record moments we dare not forget. It’s a cathartic experience reading back, as it reminds me why I write today, and how I plan to spend a life of letters in the future. It puts you back in place.