I'm sitting here with oil paint all over me, after becoming suddenly inspired to change my '2 minute life story.'
I brought my old journal back with me. I wasn't consistent. Entries range from August 22, 2008 to December 18, 2010.
In it, though, are some of the most intimate, painful, and ridiculous experiences of my life thus far. And my sometimes poignant, sometimes wise beyond my years, and many times completely inane and immature commentary on what was happening in high school.
I've re-read entries since I've been in college, cringing at my idiocy and further pained by my ignorance of my idiocy. Not always. But more often than I want to. I appreciated, though, how detailed I was, and wanted to keep it to look back on and remember.
I don't anymore. At least, I can't. It's holding me back. And it doesn't make me proud. My worst nightmare would be for someone to find this. Which proves further that there is no reason for me to keep it.
So it's going. After I finish writing my current self's thoughts on the page with purple oil paint and showing it to my acting class.
Purple. My favorite color. I did it in purple for a reason. Because I know it formed me, I know it shaped my path. So I appreciate it. I acknowledge it, and I love it for what it was and what it made me.
And then I move on.