I reread some of my old journal entries from last semester, and the intensity of my preserved feelings shocked me. They were so raw, uncensored, intimate.
My journal entries are startlingly frank because they hold nothing back: as my private outlet, there’s no self-consciousness for conventions or melodrama. So there’s something terrifyingly real about them. It’s like I dipped my heart in ink and rolled it around the pages, and the imprints are just as fresh and poignant as if written yesterday.
For the first time, I wished that I hadn’t amberized that time in my life. Continue reading