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Whenever I go home, I'll invariably spend some time in my mom's storage space. It's like this ritual, looking through old journals and artifacts from childhood,

pictures, birthday cards, old cassette tapes, you know, the kind of stuff you don't want to take with you,

but don't really want to throw away either.

It's been about 16 years since I left home and about a year ago I was back in the storage space

and I picked up an old diary.

Yeah, a diary. Just bear with me. So a lot of it is just 14-year-old me

experimenting with language, mimicking books and poems I'd read. There's plenty of

normal angsty teenager stuff, feeling misunderstood, like I was special

in a way others didn't quite get. But the diaries also contain these letters. Letters I had written to my parents guru Franklin Jones.

I feel afraid to enter again into communion. I feel so far away. My mind has been tricking me, finding something to

preoccupy my time. Reading them is embarrassing, sure. But mostly I just feel bad for the kid that wrote them.

I felt the pain of the social and conventional world fall away. My eyes closed. my impulse was to cry and grieve over all the horrible

imprintations upon the heart the body makes.

But I realize soon after, by your grace, that this too is the ego.

I love you

my heart Jonathan Hirsch All the letters are in these spiral-bound notebooks.

...