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.

I would certainly like to have a book of my own one day. One that I had written myself. I now know what to do when I think of the grim future and death. Just know what I’m going to do today. Think only of what will happen in the moments ahead. The only reason, I think, we don’t live our life all at once is because it would be too depressing. Think only of the now. Fantasizing and thinking of future grandeur is good, but when the grim and depressing arise, give thought only of what you do today. I love comic books. I love to see. I love the cold. I love being miserable. I love being hurt. I love to cry. It’s just such a grand experience being alive.

The first two sentences of this entry are such a burn on me. I still want to have that book. I’ve been working on one for the last year, but it’s far from finished. To see that I’ve been longing after this goal for fifteen years and have yet to accomplish it just makes me angry at myself.