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.

Nobody else sees the things that I’m seeing, even though they may be a lie. Nobody ponders the things I know, even though they may be the truth. Everyone wonders what’s going on in the skull of this boy, but no one asks because the hiding thing is the scariest of them all.

What is it that makes me think I’m so special at this age? Is it just a thing that everyone has when they’re young? Looking back now, I doubt very much everyone was dying to know what I was thinking but was too scared to ask. More likely, they were desperately avoiding a babbling weirdo.