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.

I’m so happy with the splendor of life, it’s almost to cry for when I but think of it.

When I recorded this entry, I tried to think of the last time that I cried from being happy. Couldn’t think of a thing. Now that’s sad.

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.

I saw things no human should that pushed me to insanity but pulled me back too early/just in time. Stars, lights, madness and a scream.

Don’t get too excited, I’m probably just talking about a dream.

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.

Sometimes what’s good & reformed you find is just as fucked up and lackluster as you thought it to be. Alas, it is the way it is and I’ll stand for in no longer. I hate it when people fuck with me.

I believe not liking people fucking with you is a universal sentiment.

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.

Incommunicable thoughts in translation. That’s the name of my poetry book.

Not too bad a name. Never even came close to writing a book of poetry, but I’ll still put the name at the top of the list should it ever happen.

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.

My fuck up turns to gold because now she’s coming. And every noise makes me look out the window to see if she’s there & I can’t do anything except won’t because I’ve waited to long & my love is finally going to be here. I can no longer write.

An excitement so great that all you can do is wait in anticipation. It sounds incredible.

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.

I’ve never missed anyone like this, or at least not with this intensity. And now with no money & little time, I want to leave and go out there & see her. Soul says yes, mind filled with logic says no. And I’ve never seen such even sides. I want to and I don’t want to. A desire to go & a desire to stay and torn up over a decision I’ve never been. I want to get this destiny right, but I don’t know the answer – back & forth, back & forth – FUCK! I just remembered – I loaned out my car to my mom, of course on the same days which would lead me away. Decision made and I’m pissed. I wanted the torture.

I forgot how broke I was in college. I couldn’t even afford to drive to see my girlfriend who lived 4 hours away. It kinda makes me feel like a life with limited funds is more exciting, filled with more interesting choices.

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.

That’s right neighbor, I don’t see you, you don’t see me, it’s the law of nature isn’t it. Much better to hate you in private, turn your back on me in public than smile at me face to face. You got chemlawn just cause everyone else did. The silent competition goes on. If you don’t acknowledge me, than I won’t notice you. Man, just a flock of suburban ostriches.

I knew I hated life in the suburbs, but I really didn’t know there was anything else out there. Cities seemed too scary, and the country is where I came from. Years later I would learn that I like everything a lot better in an urban environment, but for the time being all I could do was write about my loathing in my journal.

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.

Just the right phone call, just when I needed it. Just to bring me down, just when I needed to be just a little more up. Justice? Yes. Just too many emotions that I’m not used to up to now. Never wanted so bad, & I’ll make it out & I’ll make it work.

Getting tired or reading that I have no idea what I’m talking about? I’m getting tired of writing it.

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.

I’m thinking I know it’s something incredibly big and beyond what I am aware when the word “I love you” seem so terribly inadequate.

I knew I was in love with this girl, but going over these entries is really reminding me how much in love I was. Actually they’re kind of depressing. I haven’t felt this way since this time.

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.

I wouldn’t give you up on the promise of young lust, for that is worthless in the face of true love.

Was someone hitting on me and promising me lust, or is this just theoretical thinking?