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I spent my morning tearing my past out from my collection of written memories. I tore out the pain and confusion that have plagued me for years. I tore out the insecurities and the anxieties. I tore out the remembrance of those things that no longer exist.

I’ve held on to all of these for so long, thinking they made me who I am. Thinking I would want to remember, to reflect. And they have. And I would.

But I’ve torn them out, nonetheless, from the journal I’ve been sporadically confiding in since I was a mere preteen. Leaving just the hard shell of suns, stars and moons to remind me sometimes what used to lie within.

Gone. The written exploration into the depths of my fears and worries and motivations. Gone. The penned pain and all-consuming aloneness. Gone. The desperate, one-sided conversations searching for peace or for answers; confusing them for one and the same.

I now want only to remember the following.

My final entry, transcribed most recently, began: “And in truth, it becomes known, that time truly does heal all.” And ended, “This too shall pass.”

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