My brother recently threw out all of his old journals. I can understand the how’s and why’s and believe me, I’ve considered doing it myself but there is is something very tragic in aborting those little books of self made history. I’ve always written everything down. I’ve always kept journals, wrote poems, albeit terribly devastated poems but can I detach myself from my past? Is it my past that I’d release myself from or is it the release from words itself?

Quotes on napkins, doodles laced with lyrics and lines of poetry mismatched and crisscrossed on scraps of paper could wallpaper this house. I’ve written poems to all my lovers. A pen is present during all my heartbreaks and every now and then I explain concisely where I’ve been to a journal in hopes that someday, my life will make sense. Someday, being me will make sense. Maybe someday these journals will read like a recipe for success.



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