10iary: Ten Year Diary

I couldn't remember what I did on this day last year. Not one thing. That's what 10iary is for. You write one line today. Next year on this date, a new line goes underneath it. Ten years in, this one date holds ten of you. I bought a paper ten-year diary the year I turned thirty. I liked imagining the forty-year-old who'd finish it. It was thick. It was heavy. It lived on my desk, and I was never there on the days I had something to say. I stopped opening it. This one is on my phone. I write it in line, on the bus, in the minute before I turn out the light. Diaries don't die of laziness. They die on ordinary days — nothing happened, nothing to say, and then it's tomorrow. After three missed days, the blanks start to feel like homework. So you get 200 characters. That's the whole day. Small on purpose, so you're never on the hook for explaining it. No words at all? Choose one feeling.…