I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

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I’ve lived too long regretting.

Now eighteen, I dream of fifteen.

I am alive now.

Past be past.

I’ll take active contol of futures.

Yes, yes, at eighteeen I had a life full of regrets. But I was going to turn it all around right here at this very juncture. Or was I going to lament about it more in my journal…

Gee, I wonder which it was?