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.

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I do not remember exactly what it is like to be in love. I remember it was comfortable, yet frustrating. I used its power unwisely, perhaps. I know it felt good to hug again. Hug – a stupid word, a great action. I am tired of be alone, but scared of finding someone. Yes, I am lonely.

How about that…I’m in kinda the same boat today. I guess history does repeat itself.