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I had a holiday, then it ended. I wish it hadn't.
I look over this diary and I feel like I spent years carefully tending a garden... and then wandered off to shoot bears or something, and came back years later to find the garden overrun with weeds, and just the barest hints that someone once cared for it.
Except the garden isn't this diary, it's me. My feelings, my life, my... whatever it is that is mine. I cared about it a lot and tried to do my best for it and then I just got busy and the busyness apparently never ends. I have a job and a girlfriend and all kinds of things I'm supposed to have because I'm a grown man, and all I've had to give up is all the time and freedom that allowed me to matter to myself. I'm not really keen on this development but perhaps it's an inevitable consequence of... allowing myself to be seduced by certain... possibilities.
Ah, fuck. "In six months from now, things might settle down a bit". It looks so much like a lie when I write it down, how am I supposed to kid myself it could be true?
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