I wonder if anyone ever reads their old writings/journals.
Maybe they're meant to just stay hidden and forgotten in a box underneath layers of dust. You know, like clean clothes on laundry day? You know you have some, that they exist, and they'll probably pop up unannounced some random day after you've done your laundry.
I've just done that (along with reading some highly immature and what has to be drug-addled -sugar- writings from a 11-14 year old) and my only thoughts at the moment are:
1. I'm so grateful to have had friends, though god only knows how this was possible. Wow, I was a piece of work.
2. I was surprisingly transparent about a lot of things, and also didn't know how to shut up. 11 year old, through to 14 year old me (and maybe even further still) was so, so very shallow (see: depth of average puddle after a draught) I'm still pretty shallow but, W.O.W. past self did not disappoint.
3. I have come a long way - and somehow ended up with very different problems. Grateful but also can't help but to wonder if current problems are simply karmic retribution for being such an entitled loudmouth little twat. Hating current self a little less today.
4. My old diaries are only good for one thing - firewood. it matters naught that we are in a tropical country. The sentence is cremation.
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