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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In her is the innocence inside me, a piece of me, stolen. What is needed to complete me. Love? I could not tell you, for I know not what love is or was anymore. Life grows stranger. But I, I shall live the dream, and continue to be alive, beyond others. Happy in my own little world.

Well, I was definitely in my own little world back then. That’s for sure. But happy there? Not from what I’m reading.