Thumbing Through Ink

For no reason whatsoever, I picked up an old comp book from two or three years ago. The very first page was a transcript I wrote down from the opening of a Tool song that sampled a Timothy Leary speech. I spoke about falling away from the crowd and becoming your own. Throughout the pages were Lyrics to the Mars Volta songs (I wrote down the entire Frances the Mute album for some reason) and some failed music and story ideas. I say failed only because I never fully perused them. It was interesting knowing that my ideas for what was good and what wasn’t has drastically changed, though has simultaneously shown little change.
I read page after page of my own words and I would remember the exact place and time I had written them. I was in my art class for this page and in my service class for that page. I switched out names for pseudonyms in order to avoid any “controversies” in the event that my book had been compromised. I remember reading events and picturing them in my head. Frame for frame, every event I wrote down came rushing back to me as if it were a memory from mere moments prior.
I read about moments during my senior year that warned me of floods to come. I read about moments that foreshadowed a promising future as well as making splits a bit more painful. It reminded me that I was going for treasure that, in my old words, had been nothing but fools gold.
But, at the time, I wanted it so bad.
I was reminded of animosities I no longer hold and things I no longer place on pedestals.
As for creations, there were some ideas I feel must stay in the past, but others that must be full filled in order to properly move on.
I read the passages, although knowing it was me and owning the memories to this very day, feeling as though I was reading the biography of an entirely different person.
There were definitely some memories that still remain precious to me despite a rift being developed.
That’s where they need to stay. In memories.
There’s no way I can enjoy life trying to recreate each and every pleasant moment in my life. Some things are better left in the past.
I closed the book and put it back where I found it. When I’ll read it again? I don’t know.

Maybe, when the road ahead gets a little less bumpy, I’ll make a pit stop once more.