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.

A spectre lies in wait, in the corner of my eye, who goes away when directly you look to him. I feel him coming closer, trying to clap my throat with icy fingers giving death. A reflection in a window, a breeze on my neck, a sudden flash of need to turn around; they all save me. They stop him before he can happen. A spectre lies in wait somewhere, stepping into view.

Though this comes off as yet another of my attempts at poetry (and oddly enough, this one strikes me as less shitty than usual, though I’m always a sucker for poems that begin and end with a similar line), it’s actually somewhat autobiographical. I still wasn’t quite over being on the border of insanity, and I would see figures darting past in the corner of my eye occasionally. Sure, who doesn’t have that happen to them occasionally. What ups the ante for me at this time was the fact that my shape would “attack” me every so often. Nothing ever came of it other than me being scared, but apparently I write here that there was something saving me. I don’t remember that.