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.

img_8938.JPG

Things are the same, even when nothing’s going on, but I wonder should they be?

Only now as I’m getting what is classically known as “older” am I starting to appreciate things that stay the same. I do enough different shit all day every day, so something that I know will always be the same is comforting where it used to be grating.