Remember the vice and the way it made you feel. How you slouched in the shower afterwards, letting each droplet pound your head into shame, into guilt—the filth you felt wrapping laps around your doubtful sin. How you somehow understood breathing without being alive. Remember just how long it has plagued you, and the lack of productivity brought along with it. Now, write.
I believe the reason behind the repetition of our own cardinal mistakes stems from forgetting how we felt in the moment. Sure we sometimes soak in what provokes our procrastination, but too often do we dismiss writing our plights with immediacy. Letting fear of self-reflection with a focus on our redundant behaviors lead us to avoidance until the incident has pranced away.
How much further might we be if we took the time to jot down our emotions in the present—if we took a mirror up to our habits and followed the trail to our insecurities? Many people, some who may be dear to us, go their entire lives circling their personal Jericho. Could immediately journaling be the antidote to the nosedive of out confidence and also the pathway to wholehearted self-reconciliation? Only our own efforts to create conscious accounts will tell.