ノート

They should have been something that I was proud of. My first sketches of writing. The beginnings of the great American novel could be traced back to them. My fountain pen scribblings revealing the frantic immediacy of greatness, like Beethoven hurriedly jotting down motifs by a brook. So I kept them, hidden away, for later. 

And when later came and I looked inside, I found only junk. Worthless. Just mental illness and addiction spilled everywhere in ink. Each one like that. Just trash. Embarrassing trash. 

I threw them all away and felt lighter. But also heavier.