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’m not as alone as I might fool myself into believing. I guess now I know and what do I do. Anamalistically, I want. Inside, I don’t. I will not give in to any unwanted temptation, this I don’t want. Yet it seems a little harder than I make it out to be. At least now, life seems sweeter, I glow a little more, knowing that I’m loved and wanted. I’ve cried to get where I am, every tear being a single stop along the path.

It’s a lot more pleasant to travel when the trails not wet, though.