I sit and read
my own words,
from a different me.
Things I wrote in the past,
even just a few months past,
find new meaning in my life.
They teach new lessons,
remind me of old revelations,
help me to figure out the future
by understanding my past.
Some words are hard to read,
some I flip past...
then carefully return to with
my tail between my legs.
Others I read with tears in my eyes,
wondering what it would have been like
if the events described had played out
differently.
But I've wasted time,
sitting in silence on my bedroom floor...
yet it doesn't feel wasted at all.
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