I am coming home.

It’s been nearly 6 years since my first entry.  It’s come a long way since then.  I’ve surpassed 550 entries, most of them pointless.  It’s kind of frightening to me, because parts of what I wrote I remember as though it happened yesterday, and other parts I can’t remember at all.  Sometimes, I can’t even recognize the writer as myself.  And the most important things aren’t here at all. 

I have an uncommonly good memory, despite my previous statement.  I can remember the exact phrases that I read.  I can play a song if I hear it enough.  But my own life, the things that made me who I am, I brush aside.  As trivial and unimportant.  I’m slowly becoming separated from my own humanity.  But here, I can look back on it.  And I think that’s why I keep going.

The first entires I wrote, I was in 8th grade.  14 years old, and seemingly, my biggest concern was getting out of class on time to get to the bus.  But even then, there was something more.  I would never have written about it then, and I only hint around at it now.  Because there’s something shameful about honesty.  And all the romanticizing in the world won’t change it.