The problem with journals is that we don't go back and read them.  If my life is worth writing down, it might be worth reading, assuming I am honest when I write it down.

As a writer you are constantly asking, “Was that worth writing? Is this just brain drivel? Am I really that lame?” And so from time to time I go back and read things I have written. If it is a journal entry by me, it was normally composed in the middle of an insomnia induced 2 AM anxiety attack of self loathing fears of failure and uselessness. Always a good time had by all.

Whilst reviewing some writing today I found the following essay I wrote six years ago. It revealed a lot to me about who I was, what I feared, and what I have become. In retrospect I am glad I wrote it, but even more glad I read it.

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