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.

It’s strange to think that I’ve come by this life but once. It seems impossible. Things become familiar it seems. Dreams tell me the future, if I remember. Life may repeat itself again and yet again, but most of us would not know. I seem to see it and it takes me farther within every day. It is not drink, it is not drugs, but it may as well be. I become more and more evolved with every thought, I become more and more mad. My thoughts are like drugs. The more I think, the more I need to think to understand what I have just done. I find myself a pace to the side, unsure of my path. Unable to return to where the others lie. Do not follow me, for I would destroy you.

My meditations and astral projections and dream entering and all the other things I was doing in my own mind were really fucking me up. It was really getting to the point where I was having too much trouble dealing with reality. Looking back, my mental forays were my escape from reality, and it looks like that escapism was working a little too well.