After going back and reading my diary and thoughts, I once again realize how important writing is.
It is such a great outlet of pouring everything out.
Every little resented detail that I don’t want leaving my mouth I let it flow from my fingertips. All those memories and events that I had forgotten about, exist there in words that retrieves those happenings back. Those writings from two years ago now make me smile though at times they make me cry. It’s as if I’m sharing that anguish, that happiness, that apathy, and my youth. And it’s as if I’m listening to a young girl who I used to know so well but is now a stranger.
i love it. Listening to her stories and wanting to share stories of my own to the me who will read my words again in a couple years. A constant passing of life and its trials. I don’t think there is any greater gift that could come from myself to myself than this.
It was 2am.
She lay there.
Her head resting on his chest.
His fingers intertwined with hers.
Neither he or she uttered a word
But she loved the sound of that silence.
Warm and comforting.
She wanted to enjoy that music for some time longer
But curiosity played with her head.
She looked up and asked him.
"When did you start liking me?”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Was he thinking?
"I still don’t know the meaning of like."
Her heart fell.
"But I do know…
seeing you makes me happy
talking to you makes me happy
thinking of things I can do for you makes me happy
simply being with you makes me happy.”
Her heart stopped.
And she smiled.
It seemed childish
But she could not have asked for a better answer than that.
How much pain does one have to suffer until misunderstanding becomes blinded by rage?