An Old Journal Entry

diary entry, journal entry, this stuff is golden,

Note: Not only do I have a hand-written diary that sits on my bedside table, but I also have a Word document that acts as a second journal. It’s something that has helped me get some writing done when I thought it was impossible, something that has helped me express myself without having to publish online. 

I have decided to share some of it with you. It’s unfiltered and unedited. It’s ‘raw’. 


Sometimes I can sit and think. Those times can weirdly be quite peaceful – a moment to collect my thoughts, reflect on what’s going on in my life – a time to just bring some sort of clarity to my mind. Sometimes however, they can be heavy moments. I can be sat thinking and unable to move – my depressive thoughts making it seem impossible to move again. It’s strange how in those times I crave a blanket, something heavy still to go on top of me, to cement me in place.

I wonder if other people have these moments. Those times where they just sit and think. Whether it’s good or bad thinking it doesn’t matter – just taking that time to figure out your thoughts.

I often people watch. The last few train journeys I have taken I am always on the lookout for somebody else who isn’t just sitting on their phone, or chatting to a friend/acquaintance.

On my last train journey, I was lucky enough to watch a young boy – maybe ten years old – ask for a pen and paper from his mother sitting next to him, as she chatted that small talk nonsense to the person sitting behind her. He looked over to his left and started to sketch.

It was magic – I just wanted to get his attention and tell him how truly talented he was at such a young age. He had managed to draw a Biro portrait of who I assume was his brother, staring out of the window. It was marvellous, truly. I was jealous of his creative talents. If only I had practised more art when I was younger. If only I had not spent my time with the wrong people, having the wrong kind of experiences, and feeling lonely anyway.

Those are the sorts of things that I think when I am a just a mass. Regrets consume me until I wish I was dead. I convince myself that it is simply too late to start any sort of life, or at least, any sort of life that I want.

Thank goodness for Eddy and Violet.

2 Comments

  • Quinn says:

    If it makes you feel better to have company in the misery, I often feel like this too. I feel torn between thinking it’s too late to do what I want to do, and knowing that if I don’t start now I never will, and these feelings will only be 100 times worse a decade from now.

    It’s a pushmepullyou of a feeling and I hate it!

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