My thoughts are left scattered all over the house. They're in notebooks on the floor, on shelves, on my desk, on the kitchen table, jammed into crevices. They're also haphazardly written on stray pieces of paper, stuffed into my purse, or used as a bookmark. Two sentences are saved on my computer, ramblings are saved on my tablet. There are complete articles in my drafts section on Medium that I may never publish.

To leave the house without a pen and paper nearby seems silly, like an unprepared trip. Sometimes, my ideas are for a new book, other times they're just ramblings or to-do lists, something I just need to get out to make more room in my brain for even more ideas and thoughts.

Perhaps it’s stupid, silly, pointless. I wonder if I should keep them all neatly organized in a folder, ready for viewing whenever needed. And then, I stuff my hands in a coat pocket, I find an old notebook under a stack of books, a stray piece of paper in my purse and I’m transported to that time where I just had to get that thought out and a smile plays over my lips, remembering who I was in that exact moment.