I am sure if I dig through old journals I'll find a slew of old writings from the late 90s detailing my experiences at St. Joe's and all the associated parties, boys, and adventures. There was much going on at this time of my life. Oddly enough, even through the early part of my parent's separation, I wrote a lot. The Dark Ages didn't come until 2001. There was a 2.5 year period where I wrote very little. I wish I had written more, expressed more about what I was feeling and grappling with at the time. But then again, I was so lost. While it would have helped to get things out, I remember now looking at my journal with distaste. That writing would mean existing more deeply in the confusion and pain that was already too consuming. I wrote what I could, internalized the rest, and then boxed it up and shelved it Years later, I'd revisited stories mentally (and in some cases, physically) and stared down any lingering demons to clean out old haunts and move on. I made peace with the past.
But in the last few weeks these stories that had long been deserted and shelved have fallen down and spilled open to reveal a few chapters. I remember again. But looking down I'm a little confused...I see that where there weren't lines before, there are now. Something that I thought was over and lost just needed time to wander around and then be written.
6 years ago in October 2001, I scribbled the following: What if it really wasn't the end? If what I thought was the end was really just the beginning? Can we write this story?