Nothing like revisiting old journal entries to put you in a weird mood. Seeing who you were written in the page in such a vulnerable way, even I feel embarrassed at moments peering in so uninvited. I know I wrote the journals for me to remember, but I also wrote them to forget.
It's incredible and eerie how little things change. How the big risks that failed still haunt me years after. How they seem to slip in between each carefully printed line until during these moments of nostalgia I realize
I was never as brave as I could have been. And that regardless of what I've tried, things are as they seem: empty, void of love. A kiss on the cheek as a means of goodbye.
So I put them back in the boxes carefully, lock the door, and will myself to never look back again.
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