I shouldn't have read through the archive. What the fuck was I going to learn anyway? That I used to be happy? That life was simpler back when I didn't want to know, back when it didn't matter, because I didn't care.
What am I going to find? Most importantly, what am I looking for? Was I really a better person, before? I place so much value on time and how it matures you, but what did I discard in the quest for knowledge, what innocence did I scoff at and abandon? When did I stop writing, when did I start giving a fuck about who, what, when, where, how? When did I become my biggest enemy; a cruel editor and censor?
I hate having to look back and ask these questions, to travel down memory lane with waning ghosts whispering in my ear; gently tugging at me. I can't look them in the eye. There is guilt reflected in their suspended faces. I'm torn between my desire for solitude and my need for somebody, anybody, to look deep inside and understand. And then, stay.
The years have passed, and I'm not better. I must accept this. I'm not a role model, I'm not Emanuel the Saint. I'm angry and disillusioned, steeped in my cynicism and swallowed by my solitude. A shaky grasp on faith is all I have.
Because of this, in spite of this, I must carry on. There is no choice. So I run, I run on a little grey road.