Got a lot of time to kill. So I decided to extract this former journal of mine..
.. There's this simple notebook that I had for a journal.
It was as consistently maintained as I could, yet it had like no more than 15 or so entries a month, it only had 117 entries in a span of 3 years. There's still plenty of spaces there, but I stopped July of last year.
When I opened through the pages, my chest felt rather painful. Not like heartbreak, but more like harsh biting cold that's been pinching apparently my heart. That was right before I start reading.
Most of the entries are rants -- frustration and disappointment. The rest are either random references, attempts of realignment and some recorded events.
Most of the disappointments and frustration is either some inconvenience or hormones. It's mostly about this 'gap', or some unseen fog that's been stealing my processing capacity, and emotional instability.
And the whole writings itself... I know these entries are mostly about more extreme expressions.
Even I'm not being entirely open in the writings.
I always have this paranoia of people reading over whatever I had written.
Always have this reluctant-distrustful feeling of never having my privacy unless I have a tightly locked box that no one will ever open. Or be far, far away from anyone.
Always wanting to keep things a secret -- and always have people break my trust and evade my privacy. I've always known this because both my mom and my sister reads these things when they thought I'm asleep.
Yet I hear them, taking my things out and reading it. Sometimes they talk about it, little do they know I can hear them.
I hate it.
I've yet to complete an overview list for this. When I had just finished the whole 2017 entry, I started feeling lazy.