Isn't it funny how when you look back at something you've written long ago, you find that the meaning has changed entirely?
Or maybe that's just me.
When I was twelve or thirteen, I couldn't stand the arrogance of keeping a journal. I couldn't imagine how my life could be interesting or worthwhile enough for anyone else — or even myself — to want to read it. So I trained myself to write poems, to think on paper, shaping the words in such a way that I would want to read them again, so I'd be able to relive the thoughts and emotions I was feeling then. It worked, perhaps too well. I've got pages and pages of carefully chosen words describing how horrible it was to be fourteen, in case I might ever forget.
Hopefully, I'm a little better now. Though there's a lot of unsorted dreck floating the internet, if you can find it.