The past is heavy, but, somehow it makes sense now.

About a week ago I found my old journals. There are so many of them half full. And some have pages scribbled out, torn out or censored in whatever way. I found single piece of paper with a date and I don't even know how to describe it. I'm gonna share it here. This was a time I was not being treated, so here goes.

April 13th 2007

I just needed some paper and a pen. I need to get a sense, a sense of who exactly is in my skin right now. I don't stare off and I don't worry them. So, who is it? My former self? My self before this all? Or in between? I do think it's kind of funny, and sad, that my best dreams are when I die, but that we all revert at some point. Or, rather, we have those breakdowns, reset, regroup, reboot,

I just needed to get my mind on that paper. I just needed to regroup. After the quiet breakdown, how do you know when to reset? Do you need to? Who needs you? You need them. It doesn't make sense. 

I just needed the pen for the ink. Sometimes I think music keeps me sane. It's weird how your mood can change to the back beats and encouraging lyrics, love, adventure, dreams, words, rhythm, the ink. It's black.

 Is this going to document my life? Can it? Why is it that when you least expect it, nothing happens? In the shower is where I have my best arguments, talks and revelations, revolting now.

 Is it making sense? I just need to keep the words coming, Release. Sometimes the loudest actions are one word.

Again and again. It's cool and crisp. The trees aren't reborn yet. I thought I didn't like routine. Over and over. Replay, pause, replay, repeat. Repose? In the end, I guess. Six o'clock. It's pointless, the curves have no patterns. There's no repeat.

Repetition is beautiful. Same, alike, next to each other. The patterns. I'm not that creative. The art is dead, probably. I'm scared to try. The paper is my outlet,  pen is the plug, ink the energy. What happens next is me.

It's still not making sense to me.

Fin.