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.

She says she’s all right and always in control. People say nothing we could do could bring her down. One day, she grows angry with the apathy Everyone wants to know what wrong, she says it nothing – nothing at all. But she’s wrong. She won’t say what’s going on, she won’t cry for anyone and she’s so strong she’s going to kill herself. I offer myself, but still she refuses. Please, let yourself known.

Again, I have no idea who I’m talking about here, if anyone. This is written in poem form – with a very interesting caveman talk approach, I might add – that it might just be something I made up.