Little books

The amount of time I would give to go back and help my previous self is overwhelming. I constantly look at the hindsight I have acquired, and sigh with a shake of my head. I wouldn't go back and spoil the lessons for myself, I probably wouldn't even say much. I know me, and words aren't always needed, just affection and a smile. I can't send these loving touches to myself, so words, alas, are all I have. To my current knowledge, I can't move backwards just yet, so I will send as much as I can forward.
I carry with me two small books. One is a leather bound journal, gifted by a friend I call my sister. I write most of my thoughts, no matter how negative, scary, under or overpowering they are. The other is yellow and filled with lines. It has room for a date, and some positive feelings.
This book was given to me by a boss who turned into a good friend. She gave it to me on my birthday last year. "Living well one line a day" used to be embossed in gold letters on the front. Months of living in a backpack has beat it up, but it still holds what I need.
Every day (though sometimes I fall behind and improvise off of memory) I write something to help me stay positive. I try to keep it in the moment, so even when the hard days come along, I use them as a lesson. I can become a better person. I don't need to do this for anyone or anything but myself. I can be the person that I fall in love with. It's not vanity, it's sanity.