Writing does not heal.

I find it so hard to not only “figuratively” look back at my past; my good days, my bad days, my unmemorable days, but “literally” as well.
I find it hard to flip back through the pages of my journal.. a journal that not only hurts to read but hurts to fill as well.
I often ask myself why I still bother… Who will this benefit? Why am I recording my useless rants? My life?
What could a bunch of depressing thoughts grouped together possibly do for another person? How could I talk about my self and life this much? Does that make me self-centered?
The process of looking back reminds me of the scar I can’t seem to stop picking at, even though it is healing.. My picking at it makes it permanent, and it hurts. 
Who the fuck said writing is healing anyway?
Writing is screaming.
It’s being at the top of a mountain and screaming like you never could with an audience, and listening to your own painful echo and its ripples.. That’s writing (to me).
It’s remembering you have a voice that can fucking topple mountains, and no one has to know. You don’t even care if they ask anymore. Your voice is for you.
You get jealous over it, you want to be alone with it, you take pride in every echo of it, and every ripple.
My pages are my mountains. They don’t stop my urge to scream.. they don’t heal me.. they ripple into time.

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