Reading old journal entries is an eerie experience for me at times. It gives the allusion of omniscience. I know what follows.
Happy entries are dear to read, yet make me cry when I know the sorrow that follows. The sorrowful pages make me smile to know what joys will soon come. I see where I'm about to get crushed; where I think I'm already strong; and where I will be surprised by joy. Ironically, the feelings I encounter when re-reading such usually run opposite to those on the page.
And no matter how old I get, I still see a little girl in every line.
I think that's why I stopped journalling a year ago. I found it embarrassing and absurd to go back and see what I thought wasn't real and what was real I didn't see. (I have some sort of complex, to see that I am wrong: even though no other eyes will probably ever read them, I myself blush to see my own naivety or crude mistaking of situations.)
Yet, if I read past my first inclinations, such entries help me see growth and know I am changing: even changing in ways I did not see until reading of this girl yet unchanged. Life is about such moments: it is what we are made of.
And God knows this is what it is to be human. He smiles over my ignorance as I do: He cries when He knows what I will have to face. He knows.
It's just so odd for me to sit from His view and read my life from outside-in: to watch my life in retrospect.
It's strange to relive one's life on a page. But I suppose that is what writers do.
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