You do not know me from a word, but by the sentence it creates. You do not understand me by a sentence, but by the sentences of my life. You may never know or understand me and that’s ok. At least I’ll still exist as that sentence or those lines.
I’ve left myself in pieces through my life. Written pieces, scribbled moments tucked into forgotten journals or an empty cigar box hidden under my second drawer. I wonder sometimes if anyone will find my past like they seem to find my present. My past was silent though, my life now seems loud.
I don’t think we have to allow others to decide what is important to record, to remember. I jot down insignificant moments significantly remembered by me for some reason. That’s the beauty of blog and I wish I had owned one my entire life. I wonder what that…
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