Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
Ah, I remember it vividly—a small, worn-out notebook with a frayed leather cover and pages filled with messy scribbles, doodles, and dreams. I called it my “Idea Book,” though, truthfully, it was more like a catch-all for my teenage thoughts and wild imaginings. Every page held something—half-baked business ideas, lyrics to songs I swore I’d write someday, and sketches of places I wanted to visit.
That notebook was more than just paper to me. It was my escape, my confidant, my proof that I was brimming with possibilities. I carried it everywhere, clutching it like a lifeline, terrified that if I ever lost it, I’d lose a part of myself.
Eventually, life sped up, as it does. The notebook got buried under new ambitions, adult responsibilities, and digital tools that seemed more practical. Years later, during a move, I found it tucked in a dusty box. Its cover was battered, and the pages smelled faintly of time, but flipping through it felt like meeting my younger self.
What became of it? It now sits on a shelf in my office, a quiet reminder of who I was and how far I’ve come. Every so often, when I’m stuck or uninspired, I pull it out, reread those chaotic ideas, and reconnect with that fearless, unpolished version of me.
Maybe it’s not just a notebook—it’s a bridge between past and present. And honestly, I’ll probably never let it go.





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