Cracking

I found a journal entry from three years ago. 

I felt the carefully sealed cracks in my heart begin to reopen, shivering from the sudden wave of cold air that rushed through the fissures. 

I read that, at 21:

I had been to more funerals than weddings. 
I attended my first when I was 4. 

I had held more hands in comfort than I had new borns. 
A friend lost his dad when we could barely spell the word “toothbrush”.

The number of people I knew behind bars was higher than the fingers on my right hand. 

I wrote that I remember learning what the word ‘suicide’ meant when I was three.

I was asked at 20 why I was so happy all the time, and if I ever got tired of it, and I answered that, yes. I do, but when you’ve seen the dice land on snake eyes as much as I have, you learn to use ones that are loaded, so you can only focus on the winnings. 
—-
Now, three years later:

I’ve been to more weddings. 
I’ve held more bundles of life. 
I’ve watched friends and family begin new chapters and write stories of their own. 
I’ve had dreams shatter and be rebuilt. 
I’ve laughed and cried and lost.
I’ve found new dreams, and found myself in the process.
I’ve gained new family and lost others, the circle expanding and contracting like my diaphragm. 

But the rest of my chapters are still waiting to be written

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