I have opened the small black book that I have kept hidden on the shelf for a year. It contains a incredibly medicated and poorly written documentary of my life from the spring of 2006 to the beginning of 2007. I am unsure if I should continue in this notebook, if I should stow it away, or if I should destroy it. The sentimental value has yet to be determined.
Looking through these pages, it is absolutely saddening to realize how many plans never came to be. To see where the relationships failed to go. Failing to fully transform myself into the person I want to be. The negative memories surely appear to outweigh the positive ones.
Everyone has come and gone. These names are nothing but ink on a page. These people are dead to me. The love is gone. It is all gone.
These pages are evidence of the expedition that has led to where I currently reside. The memories were never made. It never worked out. I have nothing to show. Nothing but scribbled words written in various stages of mental distress, fueled by whatever chemicals were in my bloodstream during that week.
The names have changed, as have some of the places, the drugs, the doctors, and the desires. It matters not. It always ends the same. These pages might as well have been written last week. They are all the same.