By Makda Assefa ’26
I read through my old journal today.
Ancient emotions spilled across pages reserved for just one set of eyes.
Don’t they say time heals?
I think time spreads.
Spreads life across months, weeks, days,
Spreads experiences across a novel’s worth of memories.
Moments captured, trapped, in ink,
On these pages.
Pages descending from beautiful script to scribble to scrawl,
Longing for infinite gaps between the scratched pages,
Those emotionally charged pages, describing the demise of an unrecognizable past self.
All one can do is turn the page,
Continue reading,
Learning,
About this life.
My life?
Slowly the gaps begin to form,
A life measured in days enjoyed,
Days delicately written about,
Days lived.
Eventually the pages stop,
The story fades to black as the pages turn to white,
But alas, life goes on.
