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It didn't stop....

I'm still cleaning my closet. My journals were destroyed, and I've many of them, I start writing them when I was 8 or 10. I'm not really sure why I did it, in fact I wasn't thinking a lot while I was shattering them to pieces. Yes, I tried to re-read few pages in each of them, and I've to confess I didn't like doing that. It's silly, but I thought I was betraying myself by reading them, it was as if even me wasn't supposed to do that. And it wasn't so good to revive in my thoughts some of the written stories, too.
So now I'm supposed to feel relieved, right? Hum, I think so. At least I can die tomorrow knowing my mother won't discover the whining teenager I was, always complaining when she said "no" to me. Yeah, probably when I finish my closet cleaning I'll need a therapist.