Friday, August 20, 2004
I was looking for something in my room when I came across a box I hadn't opened in a while. Since I couldn't remember what I stored in there, I opened it and rummaged through its contents. In the middle of my old readings, musical pieces, notebooks and casette tapes, I was quite surprised at what I found...
My old journal.
I stared at it for a few seconds before I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the cover...
June 21, 1999
I immediately closed it again, not exactly sure why I wasn't ready to re-read the entries. As if in slow-motion, I opened it again, and I began to flip through the pages quickly, just glancing at words and words of what I had so emotionally written many years ago. They were so full of angst, hatred and occasional shallow happiness. An isolated case of the all-knowing, self-righteous, idealistically misled UP student. The timebomb waiting to explode. I was frozen in time for a moment, thoughts flooding my brain. I do not remember the careless, almost reckless girl who once sat down every night and religiously scribbled on that journal. It all seemed so ancient, like an almost-forgotten dream.
I would like to think that I am older and a bit wiser now, compared to her. Somewhere between then and now, life must have slapped me hard in the face and told me to wake up from my slumber. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I was rescued from drowning, and I was taught to swim to shore.
But is she really gone? The thought scared me.
As I set the old, battered journal aside and returned everything into the box. I paused for a second and buried it in my bottom-most drawer, under stacks and stacks of books and papers.
I guess that until I am not one hundred percent sure that I have reached the shore, I will be too afraid to look back.
About the Author
I have quit trying to figure out the inner workings of God's mind. I have learned to just sit back and enjoy the ride.
Piazza
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