This all needs to be redone. It’s not feeling like home anymore.
So I have all of these words, these diaries and blog entries and scribblings and… and words. And when I look back at them, sometimes it’s the most beautiful thing, like visiting insights I haven’t had in years that changed everything, or seeing old friends again that I haven’t thought of since…
…and yet at other times, it’s terrifying. All of this time — gone. Gone and never coming back. I will never be 12 again. I will never be 16 again. I will never be 18 again. I will never be 20 again. I will never be 23 again. I will never be 25 again. I will never be 29 again.
The words I have written are the shadow of my own death, getting bigger and longer with every day that passes.
I miss people. A lot of people. A lot. I miss my sisters. I miss you, CHA. I miss you, Li Bai girl. I miss you, my grandfather. I miss you, professors. I miss you, schoolmates and classmates. I miss you, E. Fox-boy.
I even miss people who weren’t a big part of my life at the time. Sara, and Joe, and Sau, and Adam, and Jon, and Ryan, and that girl I kissed in the middle of theatre 101, much to everyone’s shock. You were all more influential than you thought.
We are all more influential than we think.
Really, I miss myself — the self I was when I was 12, or 16, or 18, or 20, or 23, or 25.
In the end, it’s all for naught.
Poppies and faded photos and a little wooden box.
I know nothing. I’m a fool.
A drunken fool.