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.

Who do you follow, little one? Your mother, she tells you lies, or does she? God doesn’t speak to you, or don’t you listen. Following love didn’t work? Follow me then. I’m not going anywhere in particular. Somewhere though. Always somewhere. Your company would be accepted, not abused. You don’t deserve it to be so.

I know my old self would be angry at my current self for not typing out this prose in the pattern it appears on the page, but I also know my current self would tell my old self to get over itself.