Every day I write at least five pages in a journal. It’s impossible to write that much without repeating myself.
Constant iteration on old mistakes can be frustrating, and when I think about the magnitude of my poor decisions in youth, it often makes me feel like I’ve wasted my life. But, I’m learning to deal with those pointless emotions. Obsessing over them may seem like schadenfreude, but continually facing those issues is a sobering way to consider the emptiness of who I am now.
I am nothing, and the memories are my antidote to the seductive arrogance of being alive, so I’ll keep writing about them. Successes in the present are meaningless, too, but at least I realize the fallacy of mourning the past — other than awareness, it gives us nothing.