The more I dig around in my old journals, the more I realize that my mindset has changed little. I've learned more, read more, discovered new ways to frame my thoughts. But, in the end, the thoughts are the same
Young me liked list poems. I still do, but I try to not be so bald-faced with them. Young me was also very dramatic. Which I'm still ok with.
What I Wish I Wrote (1/25/99)
I wish I wrote about the way to get home, the roads to follow to an ideal place.
I wish I wrote about the paths not to follow and the pitch forks thrown your way.
I wish I wrote of the ocean, or, at least, of the salt on the tongue. The crystals that settle on lips and eyes.
I wish I wrote of the very alphabet, of the history of the word 'adequate'.
I wish I wrote of the road home. I wish I wrote of love. I wish I wrote of hearts.
I wish I wrote of the waves, the people that are inside them dancing to the shore. But I fear the water.
I wish I wrote of stability.
I wish I wrote of self-reliance, but I am not alone in a cabin by a lake.
I wish I wrote of the wilderness, but I never venture far from home.
I wish I wrote of who I am, but...
I wish I wrote of others, but I have exhausted so much time on people not worth my time.
I wish I wrote of the road home, but I don't know how, I don't know what that place is yet.