On keeping a journal

I don’t remember my life without a daily journal. My first one had a puffy cover with a brass lock and tiny key. It is gone now, the pages rotted or burned or shredded. What secrets could those pages possibly have carried, what secrets accumulated in seven short years? Even now, there isn’t much to tell, but the gentle act of recording this obviousness has become as much a part of my life as the actual living of it.