I started my last journal with a happy memory of mine.
Lately the harsh ones were all I could find.
Now, as anxiety and fears are put to sleep
I found another I want to keep.
My first story, woodland creatures said
Out aloud from inside my head.
Too young to write or type them out,
I jumped around and merely shout.
My older sister typed for me
My first ever written short story.
For years I’ve remembered only bad
This beautiful memory I never knew I had.
Written on 9/22/2016
Sometimes when I feel lost, I go back to my old journals for advice from my former self. It’s amazing how sometimes you forget things you figured out before. I found exactly what I needed to be reminded of yesterday:
9/14/2016
I keep thinking that life will go back to its normal routine after my move, after my next trip, when my dishes are cleaned and my laundry folded & put away, my inbox is empty I worked out in the morning and I’ve caught up on my sleep. Life will go back to normal when it’s done being messy. Then I realized this is it. Every unhealthy unorganized hungover mess of a day is my life. And I fucking love it. Every day seems significant until it’s not. This morning I got to work at 8 am for the BPR meeting and left at 6 after telling Ruby I’m in for the International team then got ice cream with Emily took a bubble bath put on an awkward face mask and watched TED talks. I’m cat sitting for Jasmine and a car alarm is going off, I stopped to buy a new journal on my way home from work. Now I just want to write or read for a bit. I sat in the BPR today and all I really wanted to do was go home and shave my legs. I try to remember I love at home spa treatments to relax me but often I’m too tired to genuinely relax so instead I just waste time. My books aren’t organized the apartment’s a wreck. I want to relax this weekend but I’m flying to Texas on Sunday, Friday’s the Giant’s game. If life passed me by, who am I to blame? Do what you most certainly want to do. You fool.
Account For Me 