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’ve lied, like everyone else has, but never about the important things. Never about love or pain, never on paper have I lied. Others may be able to, but I am unable. I’ve told everything there is I know about love to something or someone. I’ve come clean about my emotional angst to many people & many papers. I love to be in love and I love my loves. When I think about the real truth in everything, I have to laugh at so many other’s reality. The absurdity of sanity seems so drab. They just don’t get it. Oh well, things will continue while the continuity begins it’s thing and that’s the way.

You’ve never lied on paper? Really. I’m afraid I’ll have to dispute that claim because after reading through these entries this far I’ve certainly noticed plenty of instances where you’ve warped the facts and straight up lied to yourself. But it’s okay. I know you were only doing it in an attempt to make things more interesting, like any good story teller should.