Since childhood, I've had a fascination with the concept of past lives.

As in the one lived yesterday. 

Yesterday was the 55th anniversary of my birth. Since 1972, I've not missed a single day of writing in both a daybook and a journal. When I care to know who I was being on oh, say, March 3rd, 1981 I can go look it up and read--hear my voice at the age of 24. There was no Internet then, of course, so my record is housed in a Mead spiral bound 5 subject notebook. That date happens to be in volume 17.

But instead of finding March 3, a paper fell out as I opened the notebook.

A letter.

A love letter. 

And now I'm reading. Forget about writing. 

End of story.

I am still getting to know "She Writes" and like the option to blog, but I'd rather be a reader while in here.

Readers perform the valuable service of giving writers a reason to organize words.