Old Journals, Cosmic Love and The Power of Three

I've come to notice a large majority of my post titles are written in the same format (I guess this is just the style of writing I'm comfortable with) but it's curiously fascinating to see how my writing has changed over the years. In high school I was a whirlwind of emotions, scribbling endless sweet nothings into scrap books and journals. I never thought of myself as a heart wrenced tragedy, but looking back over my writing, there is definitely something so poetic about teen angst. 

Maybe, compared with my sister I was - well - a blessing? Maybe there's a fire in some people that can't be put out, or a short fuse that trips easily, or maybe I just rarely get angry at the world. Who knows. I wasn't really sure how to feel - we're not meant to, I suppose. But, I think on the whole, I bulshitted my way through a good proportion of my adolescence. In fact, ask me in three years time and I'll probably say the same thing about my early twenties. It's all just smoke and mirrors; I'll bet there are forty-year-old successful parents who really have no clue what they're doing.  

It's just one of those things really, looking back I didn't know half as much as I let on: none of us did. We were all caught in this strange facade of not understanding anything about life but pursuing it as though we had all the answers. Caught in the narcotic trance of same nights with the same people, young hearts beating fast to Cosmic Love. I wrote cryptic messages in my diary, about things I can only laugh about now. The only things I regret are the pages I ripped out (perhaps even thought they were too embarrassing to exist in tangible form). Ramblings about seaside afternoons, post-Smack morning's in bed, nights at Cox's Yard. I wrote about boys who fired a war in my rib age: boys who are only ghosts of memories now. Circling my mind every so often and making me smile about someone so far gone they don't feel like they're, well, me. 

You know, just talking about this is making me excited to unearth my old journals. I'll have to do it somewhat surreptitiously behind Pete's back - I definitely want to read over them in the safety of my own empathetic brain (and through embarrassed tears) without having the pressure of someone else's judging eyes. It's funny reading things from times of heightened emotions; they just seem like words on paper now. Blurred between the angry scribbles; heartbroken and lost in that strange space which exists after childhood and before adolescence. With all the power of London Grammar's 'Strongthat seems to reverberate through my veins in a feeling of what I can only assume to be similar to circling high under the stars.

If I could go back and help myself out, I'd give away life's biggest secret: that none of this will matter a few years from now. So explore every avenue, go without the foundation, and don't be afraid to jump.  


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