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 could sit around and daydream hours away, just thinking of how much I was in love. I knew that there was going to be someone to talk to, someone to hold, someone to kiss; someone to walk with, and I was happy.

Then, time rolled along, and unfortunately, even though popular belief says that love is everything, you find it isn’t so. I would have been content to dream my days away, but the world won’t let you.

Soon, you find that love is perfect, but those wielding it’s power are not.

Arguments over nothing come about, and you find yourself not wanting to spend all of your time with your love after all.

Maybe, maybe I’m just being an idealist. I always thought that love would be the grandest of all things, it is. I believed that it would raise me to higher consciousness than I had ever known, it did. I knew it would be untold bliss forever, it wasn’t.

Things went wrong, people change and if you can’t change to accept the change, you get left behind.

I got left behind.

When I see my old love now, I’m still in love. I could easily grab hold of her and hold her tight, look into her eyes and say, “I love you, more than I ever

Sorry to cut you off mid-quote here. The third page is coming up tomorrow.