It’s 9:54 in the evening. I just finished sorting through piles of financial reports for Thursday. The table is messy, my eyes are tired, and my head feels full. There’s still a long list of things waiting to be done. Lately, my days have felt like nothing but tasks and checklists, one after another. And yet, in the middle of this routine, I suddenly felt the urge to pause—to reach for something quiet and familiar.

So I opened my Listography again, after two years of forgetting it existed. This little space on the internet has always given me a gentle kind of comfort. It feels like a small corner where I can stop, breathe, and listen to myself again. Tonight, as I scroll through my old lists, I find Eight Years in a List, a collection I once called Moments of Bliss. Reading it feels like opening a time capsule of who I used to be. I can almost see the moments unfolding again, the little joys I once held so carefully.

I regret not continuing it. Somewhere along the way, I got too caught up in surviving the days that I forgot to record the ones worth remembering.