a long time ago i keep a journal, only i didn't call it a journal, it was just a note book i carried around constantly, i scribbled, doodled, wrote, whinged, raged, cried, laughed and shared with the paper all the thoughts and feelings which i had no other way of expressing.
It was highschool, so it was angsty, angry, mushy, misguided, illinformed and my favorite way to say fuck you to the world, without the world actually hearing.
I got it out ans started reading it yesterday, it bought back memories, so good, some bad, some my mind had completely misplaced.
I had tears running down my face as i read some of it, and truth be told, on the inside i am still and angst ridden 16 year old, with a chip on my shoulder and the desire to understand the ultimate question - Why?
My sketch book looked like this: