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.

Irreplacable things are the finest of all items in this scatterverse. If I should ever lose all of my Irreplacables (perhaps even just a few too many), I will die. Each holds a piece of my soul. Held too long to ask for it back, not that I’d want it, or wont it. Things Irreplacable are impossible to replace, but I’m finding new ones every day of my life.

Cute entry, but what interests me most is why for the last few entries I’ve gone from fact reporting to these philosophical, borderline poetic entries. Did something set me off and reporting reality become too emotionally difficult, or was there nothing interesting going on in my life so I started writing stuff like this?