A few weeks have gone by and while staring at a blank page, my mind just keeps wandering off to days and events long gone by. It will take tremendous effort to harness a specific day’s thoughts and pin them to a specific date and time. Maybe I’m just to wild at heart, name it rebellious, to be bound between the leather covers of a journal.
I want to write – it is an exhilirating experience. Should people my age not perhaps rather be writing memoirs instead of keeping diaries (as we used to call journals when I was a teenybopper)?
Maybe I should write a mémoire. Carol’s Memoir – now that sounds ridiculous. I associate a memoir with famous people or people with extraordinary achievements or people who have lived through extraordinary circumstances. Oh horror! Now I’ve read that writing a memoir is narcissistic, like taking a selfie and posting it on every social media page.
Door slams, blank page – my mind is slipping into the past again: “Reflections of my Life” – now that’s a title that sounds more like me.
Reflections of my life
Oh, how they fill my eyes