Typically, I complain about my life and other silly stuff in a journal. I’ve been keeping journals for years now. Ever since I was about 9 years old (I’m 23 years old now). It all began with little diaries and progressed from there.
In a way, I’m proud of the journals. There are times, however, when I look back within their pages and feel so much shame. Wondering why I chose to write the things I wrote. Wondering why I chose to do the things I did.
Sometimes, I read page after page as if I’m reading a series of novels and wonder what will happen next. As if the pages weren’t about my life at all. But, the closer I get to the pages of the present, the more my reality sinks in and I realize how sad of a person I really am. Sad, as in I don’t really have anything of my own and my peers are passing me by. Then again, I don’t blame them.
… I don’t want to be around most of them anyway. They’re either too stuck up to socialize with me or too drugged out for me to socialize with them. Frankly, I’m tired of my generation. As I say that, I feel that my generation is also tired of me. Haha.
~ Amanda Fortner