Review

I used to keep notebooks under my bed. At the end of every year, I would review all of them.  Even boxes of old letters and drafts that popped in my head (but were too ambitious to even begin transcribing) were let out to get some fresh air; hoping that they would meet disclosure of some sort.  Somehow, it was easier back then.  Inspiration came from every minute of not speaking, of observing, and of wishing that in every green light, there was someone reckless and ready to end your life.  Even though the world has given me more reasons to be happy, I don't think I know myself quite as I used to.  It is as if my identity has been put on pause for another one to play.  It's alright, I suppose.  I just want to be that Rae again.