Looking Back

January 3, 2011
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I used to keep a journal when I was younger since I loved to write, but it didn't work out for me. It didn't feel real; I couldn't make myself sound like me. There was so much more I had to say, so much I couldn't fit onto that page. The emotions, hot and bubbly that couldn't be put into words. Maybe I was just a bad writer then.

Some of the things I wrote I would learn to regret. Like his name, scribbled with hearts all over the page. When I look back, I cringe, my heart threatening to shatter into a million glass pieces as it did before.

Now that I re-read what I've written, once upon a time, I see my life as something too fictional, too much of a book plot. But literature mimics society, I guess. When I look at it now, it was my life, no matter what. No matter how many times I try to forget, to erase it from my memory, it'll still be there. They're too much to take, a time I didn't want to live. Even though I lived it just the same.

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