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I went pouring through boxes
And found one of my old journals
In reading it, I was surprised.
 
It contained things I write about now
All these self-defeating comments
Sarcastic wit putting myself down
Writing about de-cluttering
Losing weight, learning to love exercise
Living through past slights and pain
Grieving over loss, quelling my inner anger
Talking about how sad the world is
Still talking about the past traumas.
 
I noticed that I never wrote about the future
I feel like taking a large Sharpie pen and blocking
The words I had written
Fearing someone would read about my
Circling the drain for years
 
Or maybe so I couldn’t see the endless
Dwelling on pain and loss
And not seeing the world around me
Or that there is a world around me
I didn’t know I was so self-centered
 
Or maybe not willing to put the work into
Moving forward – taking risks
Giving up bad behaviors
And changing them for new ones
Trusting in the future is not one of my strong suites
 
What about your old journals?
Will you burn them?
Would you want someone to read about the real you?
Maybe I’ll turn mine into art journals
Painting over the words
And leave them with colors instead of my words.
And start to look forward

Instead of repeating the past.

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