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.

It doesn’t take much to be born, and only a little bit more to live: eat, breathe, sleep – all there is to it. To truly be alive and living, the difficulty begins. Eating the knowledge you desire, breathing in and out with poetic style, and sleeping through the drab mundane perversions that the world set up – but still there is much more to it. I try, but it’s hard. I keep trying, though I might continue to fail, for the fate that awaits is even more terrible. To not be alive means you become a living, walking death.

Can I just say that I’m thoroughly impressed with the turnaround I’ve had. Even 50 or so entries ago, I was using flowery language to describe nothing but dark moods and inaction. Now look at me. I’m using flowery language to describe how awesome life is. I like the me that’s going on right here.