This Is My Diary

Sifting through these pages, I feel this strange feeling inside of me. There's something I've missed in these withered and torn pieces of paper. The soundless symphony that I had composed, the tears of words that I had cried overwhelmed me. And yet some fictitious truth seemed to be lacking.1

I don't truly understand how this story came to be. All of the ideas inside of me just spilled out, I bleed the emotions from another's soul into this piece of writing. Pages are filled with words, then covered with black messy scrawls. Every long season of a painful year has been recorded here, from the summer sun's heated rays to the fluttering gold leaves in autumn's breeze.2

These were the words my heart told me to write. But as I touch these yellowing pages of a youth, I still feel that constant nagging emotion. Inside my head, through the words of my brain, it speaks. But it's not really another's voice. It's my own.3

Suddenly, the masked truth shows itself. This is my writing. The words that I could use to change the world, the words that I could use to affect people. No longer was it an enjoyable hobby or a painful memory. It was an actual piece of art, captured in words. Every page held something valuable that teenagers could relate to, from spiralling depressions to ecstasy highs.4

However, before this book could affect anyone else, I had to stop denying my memories. I took my black ballpoint pen from my childish fluffy pencil case, and scribbled on the cover:5

'This is the diary of who I used to be. Read it. Cherish it. But learn from it. And learn from me.'6