Reading Old Diaries of a Different Self

As I pack my belongings for another time surrounded by cardboard boxes, stacks of books, clothes I discard to charity shops, and memories scribbled in diaries I read my past dreams and wonder how it was ever possible to of been all of those different people I once was.

A dream that has remained constant since I was 12 to find happiness; to end the suffering; to know love. When I was 14 I confessed considering cutting my wrists but cast this thought aside with an overpowering desire to see my future self. Even then in all of the darkness and loneliness I knew that some day it wouldn’t be painful to be alive and that someday struggling through without physically hurting myself would be worth it. Emotionally I caused myself a lot of pain but that was induced by low confidence and low self-esteem that I attempted to build by cutting out positive encouragement from magazines.

Still today, occasionally the feeling of lost desperation overtakes my passion to succeed in life and I become incapable of fighting for any dreams. My dreams always change. Lists of goals stain multiple white pages, a few fulfilled, always many incomplete. Does it matter that I have trails of unfulfilled dreams? Thinking that each of these goals will lead me to happiness and success and a better life than I have now. Thinking that by completing each goal I will improve myself, I will be a more valued human being, I will be more capable, I will have more rights to be alive because I am more useful to society. Truthfully if I am supposed to learn something it will be learned without my efforts. If there is a talent to be bestowed upon me it will naturally occur and lack of patience is the only enemy. So I trust in the universe that through the pain and the suffering however long it may last, on the other side there will be more than I could ever have dreamed of.

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