I was on a 9-hour flight to Sweden. I was restless and anxious. I was about sixteen. Maybe fifteen. I was in the midst of experiencing young love (so I thought). I didn’t know much.
Isn’t that beauty of being young? Thinking you know everything when really, you don’t know shit. Those were the days, not having to stress about anything. When your only priorities were worrying about what your crush thinks or what to wear to school on Monday. I miss the days when I was free to binge-eat without gaining any weight.
I remember sitting on that flight and peaking out the window. Bored inside my own mind, I took out my laptop and opened up pages. At that moment, I didn’t write, I began to pour.
The unattended thoughts came out like it had been locked inside a hidden chamber in my mind.
I was never a good writer. I just had stories to tell. I already regret not jotting down every major or memorable event I’ve experienced. I want to be able to look back at some of the greatest moments of my life.
It’s interesting reading past journal entries from years ago. Not knowing where you’re going to end up, who will be present in your life, who will hurt you the most, and who never goes. The people you meet along the way, the romance, the heartbreak, and the mistakes you’ve made, have all contributed to the person you are at this very moment. And I find that beautiful.