Journaling: The record skipped, I reset the needle.
This, like opening an old box of what you thought were photos and books, but now reveal themselves to be a stack of worn-edged notebooks, all with different modern art covers, and with your handwriting in them. And there is the temptation to read them, but a postponement in doing so. And what is that feeling you are feeling? Regret, I think: if only I had kept it going during those intervening years, writing down what I then considered important, would it have led me to something of actual importance now? Or is it fear of reading that horrific poem you composed after Will broke up with you through email and thought "How clever, if I combined the attributes of Classic Romantic poetry with those of modern-day technological communication to express my melancholia", and you even used the word 'melancholia'. No, not even that is what is disturbing you so. I think, I think it might be the notion that I will probably fall off in writing again, fail to keep up with myself...