It never began?

I'm not even sure what the impetus was for this entry. I think I've come to realize the consequences of my negligence. I've written on construction paper, books, journals, sidewalks, diaries, napkins since I was 8 years old. I have kept every diary and every journal since then but have failed to keep up the last 4 years. This doesn't sit well with me AT ALL. I just spent the last 2 years of my life 2,000 miles away from home--with it came the life-changing experiences, you know, the highs, the lows, the unpredictability of life. The last year ITSELF was pretty damn epic and is one for the books. I've got to make a change, but more importantly a commitment this time. I'm not going to hold myself accountable for an entry a day, like I used to, but rather once a week. Now that graduation is in sight I don't have an excuses. I think I've forgotten how therapeutic writing is, reflecting. Writing is a creative process with therapeutic benefits. As a little girl I used to read all the time, my mom would take me to the local thrift shop and I'd buy books and books. You'd catch me laying in my twin-sized bed, sprawled like a starfish over my Care Bears bedsheets. Next to my pile of books, my diary. Where has that little girl gone?