I’ve started noticing that my life is vanishing in small ways. There's a lot of things to do. It's never ending. Errands, parents, health check-ups, work, conversations, meeting friends, and a hundred other things.
A conversation I had two weeks ago that felt great, I can’t fully recall the details now. The song I couldn’t stop looping last month gone from memory. The movie I loved, I can't recall.
It’s unsettling how forgettable our lives become when we don’t write them down. So I document. Just enough to leave traces for my future self. Apple Notes & this personal website mostly. A few folders, a few tags. Some things public, most private. Notes for myself, Instagram for the public version, website for the archive.
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Music was the easiest place to begin. I make a playlist every month — nothing curated, just everything I play on repeat. I don’t edit it later. Even the bad ones stay, because they belong to that version of me. A playlist is a diary in disguise.
When I find a song that hits differently — maybe something I’ve looped twenty times in a week — I add it to my Monthly Playlist on Spotify. Then I open Apple Notes and type one line under a running note titled This Month Sounded Like… Something like, “October sounds like solitude with energy underneath.”
At the end of the year, I’ll embed that playlist on my website — one per month, each with a short caption. It’s not about showing taste. It’s about bottling emotion.
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Travel was next. Not the places, but the moments between. A road where I stopped to stretch. A conversation with a driver. A dish I didn’t expect to like. I started writing one paragraph per trip — not for Instagram, but for memory. When I read them now, I can feel the heat, the light, the air. It’s like a time machine built with sentences.
Food followed naturally. I take photos of whatever I cook, or love, or regret ordering. One line next to each photo — what made it good, or not. It’s less about taste and more about evidence that I’ve lived days worth recording.
I’ve started paying attention to daily observations too. Tiny things: how light hits the wall at 7 AM, how the neighbour’s kid greets the security guard, how street vendors arrange their change. These are the real markers of time. They make ordinary days interesting enough to remember.
People deserve documentation too. Not their birthdays or job titles — their impact. I keep a note with names and one-liners: “He taught me how to stay calm in chaos.” “She once said something that still annoys me.” It’s honest. When I read it, I see patterns in who I attract and who I lose.
Friendships are more fluid. I’ve started logging moments — not milestones. A late-night call. A long silence that didn’t feel awkward. A message that said everything without saying much. Writing them down helps me see which friendships are still alive and which ones I’m just maintaining.
Habits are quieter but powerful to document. Instead of tracking streaks, I write how it felt. “Didn’t want to gym, went anyway.” “Skipped reading, scrolled instead.” These micro reflections expose what discipline actually looks like — not perfect, just honest repetition.
Ideas, I’ve realised, are useless if they stay in my head. I keep a running note of every random thought — bad, half-formed, absurd. Most go nowhere. Some become essays. But the point isn’t output; it’s extraction. The more I write them, the lighter my head feels.
Reading notes changed how I read. Earlier, I’d finish books and move on. Now I write three lines when I close a book: what I learned, what I disagreed with, what I’ll apply. Even if I forget the content later, those three lines hold the essence.
Conversations used to fade quickly too. Now I write one thing after each good one — a quote, a question, a tone, a moment. Sometimes just, “Felt heard.” It’s not about transcripts. It’s about residue. The aftertaste of interaction is worth saving.
Decisions are tricky. You think you’ll remember why you chose what you did. You won’t. So now I write it down: what I decided, why, and what I was afraid of. Reading old decisions later is like talking to your past self with hindsight. It’s humbling and hilarious.
Questions are the rawest form of curiosity, so I keep them too. “Why do I crave noise when I’m tired?” “What makes some days feel lighter?” “Should I say no more often?” I don’t rush for answers. I just collect them. Questions age better than conclusions.
Outlive: by documenting
The point isn’t perfection — it’s survival.
When I travel, I don’t wait till I return to write. I open Notes mid-trip. One note per journey, titled “Kochi, October 2025.” I write in bullet fragments: what I noticed, what I overheard, what I ate, who I met. On the flight back, I clean it up a little, then upload photos and those fragments into a short journal entry on my website — one photo, a few paragraphs, done.
If something is visually strong — say, sunlight on a wall or a local signboard — it goes to Instagram. It’s my visual diary, not a performance.
When I eat something worth remembering, I document it straight into Apple Notes. I have a folder called Taste Log. Every meal gets one line — “Fish curry, coconut-heavy, tasted like home.” or “Overrated ramen, never again.” For things I cook, I click a photo and write what I’d change next time.
Every Sunday, I drop one food photo on Instagram Stories with the note scribbled on top. Not for likes — just to remind myself I lived another flavour.
Daily observations live in a single running note called Things I Noticed. I add one or two lines a day:
“Man selling flowers at midnight.”
“Neighbour’s dog sits like a human during rain.”
“Security guard humming Kishore Kumar at 6 AM.”
Once a month, I copy my favourites to my website’s Field Notes section — just text, no editing. It’s the most honest way to show how I see the world.
When I meet people, I open a folder titled People & Lessons. One note per person.
If someone says something that sticks — “Don’t chase depth everywhere, some things are meant to be shallow” — I add it right after the meeting.
Every December, I pick five such notes, remove names, and post them as a reflection thread on Instagram. Feels like gratitude disguised as content.
Friendships are harder to keep track of. So I write small entries after any moment that feels alive — “Late-night walk with R. Spoke about childhood and work. Felt grounded.”
I tag those notes #friends. Once a year, I export them into a single page on my website called Moments That Felt Like Friendship. It’s not sentimental; it’s record-keeping.
For habits, I don’t track streaks. I track honesty.
Every night, I open Apple Notes → Daily Log → add one line about what I did and how it felt.
“Gym → didn’t want to go but went.”
“Skipped journaling → felt heavy all day.”
These lines show patterns that no tracker app can.
When an idea strikes — even half-baked — I throw it into a pinned note called Idea Dump. No formatting. Just raw fragments like, “Smart lock that knows who’s at the door by sound of knock.” or “Design essay: empathy is an input, not an outcome.”
If it survives a week, I move it into my Essays Drafts folder or post a one-liner version on Instagram. My website holds the polished version later.
When I finish a book, I add it to my Reading Notes folder. One note per book, three lines only:
What I learned.
What I disagreed with.
What I’ll apply.
Sometimes I’ll turn that note into a short Instagram carousel with the cover photo and those three lines. My website has a Library page that automatically pulls those posts in.
After a deep conversation, I write one sentence in a note called Conversations Worth Remembering. Just the essence.
“She said: being content is different from being still.”
“Learned: most people want to be understood, not advised.”
When I scroll back through it, I can see the evolution of my thinking through other people’s words.
Whenever I make a decision, I record it in Notes under Decisions & Fears.
Date, decision, reason, and what I’m afraid of.
Sometimes I add a follow-up later: “Turned out fine.” or “Still unsure.”
It’s less about accountability and more about seeing how my risk tolerance evolves.
I keep a note titled Open Questions. Whenever I find myself thinking deeply about something I can’t solve, I write it there:
“Why do I want to control things I claim to care about?”
“What makes boredom feel heavier some days?”
I don’t answer them. I just keep them. Because the type of questions you ask over time says more about your growth than any journal could.
Everything ends up somewhere:
Notes hold the raw versions.
Instagram holds the shareable fragments.
My website holds the archive.
Notes, Instagram, and this website have become my external hard drive for life.
Some nights I imagine opening it twenty years from now to see my old playlists, read my one-line food notes when I could taste things. The songs I looped when I was 37. Decisions that scared me but worked out anyway. It would be like meeting every version of myself again through captured data that feels alive.
I wish I had this record for the years I’ve already lived. But I can have it for the ones ahead. And, that’s enough reason to keep writing and documenting.