I never wanted to write. I am not a writer, nor will I ever be. I do not have the creative flair or the ability to carry out perfect grammatical execution of ostentatious words. What I do have is a voice in my head that is tired of being silenced. I started off writing in March on a small scale; mostly personal stuff on a partially used note pad. I have however, run out of pages on that particular note pad and have no desire to attach a new one to it.
You see, me and that note pad, we have a history together. I like to call her Mrs. Diary. She has witnessed my tears, she has been motivating my blue ink to write when my head starts to fall apart, she knows my innate secrets. She doesn’t judge me. She sits quietly and allows me abuse her. She allows me flip through her pages angrily, she’s patient even when I abandon her for a period of time and only get back to her when I need her. With her, I have hope that my story can be told.
Just like a child outgrows a toy, I have outgrown her. And she being an ever understanding and wise woman has gently pushed me to discard the old school paper and pen and make my journal public. I don’t trust this to be a very wise move on my part, but she has never advised me wrongly. So here goes nothing.