Dear Diary,
I combatted my racing thoughts with a walk amongst the rolling, evergreen meadows and the whispering trees. The wind was sharper than it has been all summer and I let it cut through me, but pain didn't seep from the shivering split down my back.
Tiny pieces of myself went soaring on the breeze and with each invisible, stolen thing,
I let the relief of acceptance pool, lukewarm and centring until my skin was smoothed of any chill and there was nothing but the path ahead.
It is dark now, when, then, it was morning, and I could not remember why ever I was so sad.
It could have been the end of summer breeze or my golden eyed boy trotting at my side and through ditches and mud and tall grass. Who sprung up with a joy and a wonder and an excitement so prolific I couldn't help being infected.
But, like I said, it is dark now and my golden eyed boy is somewhere I cannot allow myself to go again.
So the darkness creeps in like an oil slick monster and I can hardly stand to see it.
It has a face that looks just like mine.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary Of A Wistful Girl
RandomA series of personal (or are they fake?) diary entries that you may or may not relate to.
