Reading old stuff

Most of my evening today was spent reading old journals that I finally got my hands on. They were all stashed away at F’s for safekeeping because every now and then my mother decides to ruin her life and walk into my room and eventually find something – Anything – an old movie ticket stub, bills from some resort, an old letter, kuch bhi; that will leave her feeling like her uterus dropped down to the basement and died. Because I came from bloody there no? The uterus, I mean. Not the basement. So to avoid this tragedy, I had given away all my journals to F because they were all about him anyway. Let’s not even get to the fact that he hasn’t read any one of those journals that are all about him and me and all the romantic goof shit that I was made of a couple of years ago.

I realised a whole lot of things from reading all that today.

1) That I was a far more regular writer then and a lot better also.(Even though I say so myself) And maybe why I was better was because I wrote like freaking everyday.

2) The life threatening problems that I had a year ago are laughable today. Just goes on to say how pointlessly serious I take myself and my life. And that eventually, whether or not I am prepared, time heals everything.

3) I was very stupid.
Back there I found some stuff about myself. That I wrote. With my own bloody hands. That I never want found out. By anyone. Not even after I die.

4) I was a dick head to assume that I would never change and that what were priorities in my life about 3 years ago would be my priorities forever.

5) I Trusted too much and too many people.

6) I was in touch with myself a lot more than I am today.

Which only means, I need to write more and write everyday.

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