(no subject)
I'm returning to this thing when my instincts would usually tell me to burn it to the ground, or at the very least never look at it again. There is pain here. Ghosts. The sting of loss and regret, laid out so fresh and clear across the screen. In my own words, and those are delicate and specific cutting instruments.
I've been the architect of my own demolition. I could hate myself and I've been hating myself for quite some time. Mostly, though, I've been pretending that I'm not to blame for the wreckage I've been sifting through. Not the most optimal pathway to rebirth and redemption.
It's no small thing that I am now even able to read these old entries, and instead of cringing or recoiling in guilt and shame, I feel a flicker of hope and inspiration that feels both familiar and new.