Somewhere In Brooklyn

29 - December 4

You know the perk of writing out my everyday thoughts instead of saying them out loud? My handwriting got better.

My sister used to collect journals. Leathered. Hardbound. White paper. Cream paper. Craft paper. Ruled pages. Blank pages. She would buy in bulk, stacking them up on her bedroom floor. Sometimes, she would also try to give me one so I could write my bad days and feelings on it.

She told me writing helps. So I followed her advice, making the papers my trusted confidant.

I know most people write to escape reality and to let out all the things that's been weighing them down. To relieve the aching pain that they've been bottling up. That's what I'm also trying to do except that I also write to remember and to feel. Or to remember how to feel.

And all these secrets, all these ramblings are safely tucked away, hidden in a shoe box of memories under my bed—out of reach from prying hands.

If you could only read this now, read everything I've written in this worn journal, you wouldn't smile at me. You wouldn't talk to me. You would find me creepy and stalkerish. You would avoid me. You would probably file a restraining order against me.

And you have the right to. I understand, I mean a stranger writing about you? That's creepy.

But I'm hoping you won't. Because you're the only person I'm holding onto right now. Because you're the only one that's making me believe that there's still something worth waking up to in the cold morning. Because I want to know you even more.

I love you, Althea.

(Okay, I'm probably gonna write that again and again because this new pen is so smooth.)