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.

A lot of times, when I doubt myself, I know that I am but tired, but do nothing to correct what is wrong. I accept that every person must have a little evil inside of them, but I keep trying to excorcize this from me. With sleep, I know that I must accept myself – all parts. Fate guide me to a madness of mind free path. And lately, it seems that the whole world is in love.

These last few entries have been kinda strange. I keep talking about getting a lot of sleep and loving myself, so apparently I wasn’t doing that before?