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 haven’t been able to talk to anyone real for so long. I lose my reality because of it. I’m not sure where my destiny lies, there’s always uncertainty. I can see the lives and paths of countless others, but not my own.

The first three sentences of this entry are totally true. The first part of the last sentence isn’t, but then it’s back to truth again.