Looking through old journals. A puff of breath, a cloud of yellow dust. Faded ink on retro notebooks. And those words... filled with such depth and thorough analysis of unimportant things, like my emotions. Each sentence constructed, conscientious of my posterity. Always with an eye on the generations that would read about the formation of my greatness. So little authenticity. So little raw emotion expressed. Just analysis of things like "where I'm at" and "how I feel." Noxious journal entries that will make the angels weep with boredom. Self-important drivel that numbs my future. Taints my journey. I wish I would have told the truth. I was an imbecile, lost in a blizzard of inconsequential happenings. I was carefully polishing the inane artifacts of a self-obsessed life. I should have told the truth.