Sometimes I love writing. I love being able to make whatever fantasies I have come true from mind to pen, then pen to paper. But sometimes, my writing turns on me. Looking back at it, it becomes a vague reminder of a person that once was. An itch on the middle of my spine that for the life of me, I cannot scratch. But my writing is a history book. It records moments in my life and feelings that I felt in a strange cryptic format that only I understand. It is s a reminder of who I am and who I used to be, and there is no way of growing without seeing what you did wrong.