When I was a teenager, which was over a decade ago, me and my friends passed out a notebook—each free to write their thoughts and stories.
My adolescent years unraveled at a time when writing in pen and paper were very much practiced; when the internet was just booming and blogs and social media did not dominate our daily lives yet.
That notebook was an open diary for us who shared it. We would pass it around every time someone had the urge to write. It was like the sisterhood of the traveling pants, only in this case, it was a notebook. Some consisted of confessions, my early samples of literary pieces, fiction, real——regardless of the content, the words carried the weight of our worlds, an extension of our burgeoning quest to form identities and make sense of first loves and first heartbreaks. It was our own brand of comfort.
I remember looking forward to reading their accounts as much as I wrote mine.
There was something about writing it all down, for only a handful of eyes to see, of vulnerability and openness coexisting in a single platform. It was a magical time—where each stroke of the letters tells a story as much the words themselves, where we were all reading and living vicariously through each stories.
I never did know what happened to that precious notebook of my teen years. It has been passed around so many times we somehow lost track of it, and of each other through the years. The writers may have grown up, changed by the times, but we will always share that space, that snippet of who we were and a glimpse of who we will and can be.
Behind the words and the scribbles, that notebook captured the essence of our youth, holding precious memories of the naive but hopeful girls who have yet to become women. Our own piece of shared history.
A part of me is hoping that the notebook is safely tucked away, awaiting its imminent discovery. And that whoever we may have become, the past versions of ourselves would be proud.