Take a moment and ponder what it felt like going through one of your favorite experiences. The ones you’ll remember forever.

What are the first moments that come to mind?

Now, imagine trying to put that into spoken word. Easy peasy right? We’ve all verbally spoken our best times.

Here’s the deal though: when you attempt to capture your best times in written word, the experience begins to breathe its own life.

Words written, are the closest us mere mortals ever come to immortality.

Because when we write we outlast ourselves.

Catching Zeus’s lightning in a bottle, then letting it loose onto the page, keeps our energy even when we’re tired, busy, or gone. A stranger, years from now can step into your stormy afternoon and be shocked—simply because you chose an electric verb.

Writing is the difference between reminiscing and returning to the moment. It’s how we teach our future selves what really mattered and invite others to feel it too.

The Sylvia Beach Hotel’s Legendary Journals: Memories Locked In A Cage

If I know my potential audience at all, you will resonate deeply with these sentiments. Which leads me to the purpose of this page.

The legendary journals were the tool used in which you proved that the era of electronics has not completely killed romance and authenticity.

I felt you—the ones who wrote at 1:17 a.m., window cracked to the roar of the sea, dim red light bleeding under your door of the Amy Tan room, salt stinging your nose from a restless ocean-sneeze, pen nearly dry but still pressed hard because the sentence refused to shore itself up. The ones with wine-stained lips and spectacles fogged by the warmth of your own laughter, remembering a joke that new friend told only hours ago. The ones where you told the truth, though nobody in the room knew you—until they heard the lie you invented, the one you tried to make sound twice as believable as the truth.

I’m not selling nostalgia, because there is no price on such a thing here. I’m hear, to point at what you’ve built and say: this is the point.

You didn’t write for likes. You didn’t write for posterity or a plaque. You wrote because that fire in you refused to be doused. Doing that, together, we’ve made a map—messy, handmade, unbelievably useful—for anyone who needs proof that their life is not just happening but mattering.

So here’s the purpose of this page, plain and sharp:
To honor the legendary journals in which you left pieces of yourselves—so the rest of us could find our way back to ourselves. To look you in the heart and say: keep going. The name on the building can change; the weather of the coast will keep doing what it does. But the covenant you made with a blank page? That’s ours to keep or break. I’m choosing keep.

Write your best moments in your journal again, with ink or lead, take a snap shot, send it to us here and allow it to be witnessed.

Let us come together and merge the physical with the metaphysical.

AManCutIntoSlices@gmail.com