I feel strange, writing in this book. It's like I've taken someone elses thoughts, their personal, private thoughts, and am now writing my own right next to them. But my handwriting is the same. My language is the same.
I've been trying to piece together things, but I'm not sure where to begin. I suppose the only thing I can do is keep moving forward. And one step of that is to keep writing. Maybe if I read these words enough, they'll awaken the past in me, and I'll...I'll snap out of this, whatever this is. Damn my unsteady feet. Had I never slipped...no, no, can't do that. I cannot sit here, wailing about the past, lamenting a mistake that I had no control over. The rock was slick, I unstable, the drop fairly far. The only thing to do is to move forward.
Keep going on.
Keep going on.
It will all come together one day.
