I’m sifting through 42 years of diary entries. It’s like mining for copper.
This is the first book I started when I was 17. My sister gave it to me for my birthday. Years ago, I looked through the pages and placed it on a shelf. That was me? Did I really think like that? Was I really that shallow and materialistic?
Now, I want to be a careful editor, transparent. It’s my belief that I can’t improve on the truth.
As I read these pages I want to remind myself to send love and support to my younger self, and please God, my familiars.
I’m wondering, is this a way to work outside of time?
