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04 November 2009 @ 11:11 pm
It’s been a really long time since I last logged in here. Though I thought I’d never be able to do it, I finally managed to read all 194 entries that I’ve written since I started this diary and, oh my God, I didn’t like what I read. At times, it didn’t even feel like I was the one who wrote it, but I think what made it particularly unpleasant to read, even kind of painful sometimes, is that whether I liked it or not, there was still a part of me in those words I once put together. After I reached the last sentence that I had typed in this virtual journal last March, I knew I wouldn’t need to read those words ever again. Words that witnessed things I don’t want to think about anymore, since I finally understood life’s just too short to waste time in sorrow.

A lot happened since the last time I posted something here. I left for a place where I had never been or pictured myself living before, and realized how time and distance make it a lot easier to understand what’s really important, and what’s not. The things I wrote about seemed important at the time. In fact, they were pointless. And although the point of this diary was to help me better understand who I am, I’m now 27 and I still feel like a stranger to myself. What’s really terrible is that I’m not sure I’ll ever really know myself. I guess I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life living with this guy who I sometimes don’t recognize when I see his face in the mirror, and I’ll just try to get along with him the best that I can.

I pretended to be sincere in those words, and I did try to be sincere when writing what I decided to write, but there were still a lot of details, often more than details, that I intentionally forgot to mention. Therefore, this journal was not such a sincere track of my existence for anyone other than me, as I am the only one who can fill in the blanks with memories of what really happened. I guess it’s just impossible for any diary to reflect exactly what’s on its author’s mind. Had I been entirely well intentioned and sincere, it would still have sounded fake and unauthentic somehow.

I still write for myself and for others, in blogs and elsewhere, only now I write about things that I think are truly worth writing about. Things that are more important than what this journal was all about. I still write about myself sometimes, but only when there’s something I experienced that I think is worth sharing. One thing for sure is that I’m not willing to put myself out there with the same vulnerability I’ve shown in the past.

I’ll conclude what will be the last entry ever written by America Trotter with the words of that one silly boy who, without even knowing it, gave me the inspiration to start writing this diary two and a half years ago. In retrospect, I’m not sure if it was such a great idea, but then again, I have no time for regrets anymore. And to those who think I could have taken the trouble to put it in my own words, I’ll just answer, why bother trying to be original when what I recently read in his own journal expressed exactly what I was feeling about mine –and he probably wrote it better than I ever could have.

I stopped writing because I realized that I wanted to start living my life instead of focusing on how it would sound on paper.