I found my old journal yesterday.

In it I read Romeo and Juliet, it took me to watch how Juliet falls and kept on falling until the balcony was over her head.

In it I read the diary of Anne Frank; her two years of hideaway, where Germany looks more like my room and Jews were oddly similar with my trust.

In it I read the New York Times; the yells and screams happened in the depths of the subway is no surprise to the upper east siders. It continued on reporting a failed attempt by an AK 47 down at Time Square that caused chaos among the masses.

There was almost too much lyrics of artists I barely talk about anymore, filling the yellowish paper to the brim. Stars are drawn all over my arm and all the love in the world written in script. Saw too many tips and tricks on how to provide equanimity. And there was also where the great plan of burning the rainforest down, so they’ll care out of pity lies.

I read the greatest love stories of all time, I wrote the greatest love stories of all time, I lived the greatest love stories of all time.

I read out loud the history book on the shelf. Wishing it’d never repeat itself. Forgetting the fact that it’s a journal of myself.

Moral of the story is that I found my old journal yesterday. It made me question all the means of today.