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.

It’s jealousy at times that causes me to be so angry with you. I see others touch you as I am no longer allowed now that I have told you. As always it was a jest, but you don’t see it like that anymore. I love you, more than maybe you think, and maybe I’d like to do more, but I know that’s impossible and so & doesn’t enter my mind any longer. Perhaps you’d think it foolish of me not to say these things to you, but as it stands now, it seems the more I say, the more I lose. So I sit, not complacent, for I’m still trying to get back what I lost, but accepting of what I am and of what you are not. And even if you were to offer to join me in what I sometimes ponder, I would refuse because I wouldn’t be able to believe that it was the truth that I was being told.

Weird. I don’t remember who I’m referring to here, but I remember getting in trouble because my new girlfriend at the time read this entry and wanted to know who I was scheming on. That’s really all I recall about this whole thing. I can’t even remember what I told her that got me out of the doghouse.