I’ve heard it said of people who didn’t make much of themselves or didn’t gain recognition for their work while they were alive, that all they were in the end were the things they left behind. This never really terrified me until recently. Turning twenty-six has filled me with a strange kind of anxiety: on the one hand, I’ve never felt more like myself and comfortable in my own skin, on the other hand, the more I worry about my writing and whether I will ever amount to being more than an obscure person on the internet. Not that that isn’t a wonderful thing to be, but will it be all that’s left of me?

I’ve been writing in journals–whether actual notebooks or pages of bond paper stapled together–since I was around eight and began keeping the said notebooks when I was ten. For a long time, I thought that journaling would help me capture moments, would help me preserve memories but after reading them back, I realize that it takes more than a body and some clothes to make a life. I don’t remember any better because of the fragments I’ve kept but I suppose they’re worth something anyway.

It’s interesting what new things can be made from these moments that’ve lapsed. It was like hearing from someone I didn’t know. That said, I find that I can’t journal in that obsessive way that I used to. Maybe other obsessions like Booktube and writing have taken over? I really can’t say.


Also, as deceptive as the spoken word trailer might be, I don’t actually think I’m going to Tom Marvolo Riddle myself and have these notebooks take revenge for me. These are all written using things people have said to me verbatim as prompts.

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