The year winds down, coming down to its final legs.

In a week, there will only be two months left and then we’ll have another clean slate to work from.

The cycle continues and we have some short time left to make the best of 2017.

It’s also around this time that I start to reflect about the year, about myself. It’s also the time that I wonder what will be of me next year. What will happen?

It’s the time when I read back to some of my old postings and figure out how much have I changed. Is there still an upward trajectory of being a better person?

Time.

Time is a mystery. It’s constant but abstract at the same time.

It’s finite and yet, infinite.

Time.

* * *

Looking over the years that I have written in here, it seems that in 2010, I only wrote about nine entries and was curious as to what was going on in my life at that time that prevented me from writing more.

Writer’s block.

I read over the entries. Some of them filled with the common themes and subjects that you will find in many of my other entries.

Lost. Insecurities. Girls. The Darkness.

Yet, there were some glimmer of hope and positivity in there too. There was that sense of optimism that crept up on me, which I still can’t explain.

It’s all there.

Then I came to an entry about an asshole, and a tumultuous couple. Reading the story, that night flashed back to me. Them. They.

The night.

That fucking night.

Me, always playing the knight, needing to save someone.

It’s overrated, the Knight in Shining Armor. Fuck him.

I wonder would I still the same if I see someone in need. Would I mount my gallant steed and rush in to save the damsel?

I don’t know.

No clue.

* * *

I haven’t sent out a link to this little void of mine to anyone in a long time.

Not many people know about it and it just doesn’t come up in conversations.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of this place. No, I’m not.

This little blog of mine saved my life. It’s my therapy. It me, my essence, down on paper.

I’m not ashamed of it.

Yesterday was the first time I sent it out to someone in a long time.

It’s a friend from work. I had a great time getting drinks with her on Friday and somehow we ended up opening to each other and somehow I mentioned my blog and she wanted to read it.

I had to think about sharing it. I do write about people here, even though I do use code names for the most part, but I don’t know. There’s a sense of being open and then there’s being too open.

This is me. These words are my thoughts and fears out for the world to see.

The anonymous nature of it helps with getting things out there and in a sense, it’s not like I’m hiding it.

I sent it to all my family and all of my coworkers when I first started it 14 plus years ago and from people that came in and out of my life since I’ve started writing it.

So, I sent it to her. Not sure if she’ll read it at all, but it’s out there.

Also, it’s not like it is difficult to find if they know all of my web handles. Not hard at all.

I’m writing about this as a long prologue about what I really want to write about, my old entries.

Specifically my first entries.

I’ll make a new section about it…..

* * *

…..my first entries.

I haven’t read my first entries in years. I don’t remember when. I don’t think I read it when I was finished with therapy or maybe I had, but even then, that was well over two years ago.

I read them again yesterday.

In the 14-and-a-half years since I’ve written them, those words still feels fresh to me. Those words still bring tears to my eyes and the dull aching pain to my heart.

The wounds of that lost young soul still haunt me.

It doesn’t hold the same power over me like it once did, but I still remember that pain. I still remember that darkness, that ickiness, that fog.

It’s was my life for so long. It was my constant.

I’ve grown, changed, and rebuilt myself cell by cell in these past few years.

I’m damaged and will always be, but I am much stronger for it. I’m much stronger than I was then. I understand more.

With time, I’m better.

Like my friend said, it’s not just time that fixes all things, it’s the conscious effort that I put in to understand myself, to love myself, to work on myself and to allow myself to heal that made me stronger. It’s the choice that I made to be better.

Forgiveness played a big part in this healing process too. We’re not perfect. We’re only human. We’re all damage and we will never be 100% fixed. It’s a matter of being comfortable with what is broken and being able to live with it and say, “Hey, I’m okay.“

I’m okay.

I remember a few of the other entries that I wrote, specifically the ones about my father, my family, the one about my grandmother, and I want to read all of them again.

It’s living in the past, I know, but it’s also healing. It’s also tracking progress.

I’ve come a long away, such a long way.

Such a long way….

* * *

Going through some of these old entries, I came across some of my creative work that I forgot about.

Some of these short stories and even some of my poetry make me want to get back to creative writing again. I just need to shut up and do it.

Poetry.

I miss it.

Prose.

It’s a bitch, but I do like it.

I have such a love/hate relationship with writing.

It’s funny.

I’ve written well over 450 entries in this little space of mine, I can’t possibly read it all again. A masochistic side of me wants to read it all, but what will at achieve?

I don’t know. Should I try? Maybe.

Eh.

Who knows what will happen?

Till next time.