I’m reading back on all the old letters and poems and prose. I could never write like that now. But even back then, I always complained about the way I wrote and now reading back, I’m rather proud of it.

You read it and you feel it. I feel the struggles and the confusions of what it is to be a fifteen year old figuring out who she loves, and by that, who she is.

We were so damn raw and honest and we’d write pages and pages of our feelings, patiently putting them all into words. These days it’s such a damn mumble jumble. Maybe these days we don’t even know what we feel anymore. Maybe we don’t have time to examine. We don’t give ourselves time to feel. It’s a constant feed of what to feel.

Maybe it’s just that we’ve grown up and levelled out. We’re more level headed. We’re more confident, calm, cool, collected.

But I don’t think that I’m any less confused these days. It’s just easier not to think about it all. It’s so much easier not to think about it all. It’s not that I haven’t learned from the past, but maybe the answers change over time.