Black Background

by decayingdiaries

I’ve always wanted to write journal, but I never did. I’d try, of course, I was always enthusiastic about the privacy. My privacy. So in the end, I’d write one entry or two before I forgot about it. I have several diaries still with the first 3 to 5 pages scribbled with my basic details, they hold memories, how my opinion about myself changes as I grew up. I guess that’s what made me  writer.

It’s nothing like before now. Anyhow, I know, now that people pry. No matter what you do, how much you protect something people still get into your personal belongings. So earlier in I started a journal. It was nothing like the usual. I just took a random diary and dotted my thoughts daily, letting my frustration onto the paper. There were no introductions, no fear of someone reading it because I thought there was an unsaid privacy policy about private stuff. But two days back got upstairs to find it gone. My sister took it saying it was her diary, which it wasn’t. But she hadn’t read it, so I tore out the pages and vowed never to write a journal again.

It’s kinda sad since it was fun. well… there’s joy in being anonymous, a strange mystery in the background. And that’s what I become here, as I open up, unknown, unseen yet familiar.