Once upon a time, I kept a diary filled with all the usual childhood nonsense. Dreams and hopes. Frustrations and confusions. The normal part of small human trying to make sense of the world. It held my most private precious thoughts. Secrets of my still forming soul, and the trials and tribulations of my heart.
I was an imaginative child, but the diary held my truths as I learned and grew. It was a special space, safe to pour out my thoughts. Until it wasn’t.
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As rudely as she had spit the words at me, she had a point. Was I really writing for myself if I HOPED others would read it?
I paused. “I suppose that’s true,’ I conceded, ‘and yet it’s okay to write something for myself and still want others to read it…isn’t it?” Our eyes met across the counter. We both stared at each other. And in that instant that felt like forever, I wondered to myself why I even cared what this bitch thought. She never did like me. |
AuthorTink, world traveler, positivity muse, and adult entertainer, has also freelance written for a number of companies as their ghostwriter. Now talking directly to YOU on this platform, she is also writing two books at her community's request. Archives
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