It used to be so easy to have the most vibrant and brilliant conversations with a page, but now…it’s like my diary doesn’t even want to be my friend. I don’t know if this is payback for going out and finding real people to converse with, or just the symptoms of the forgotten luxury.

When you’ve only got one thing, you make the most of what you’ve got. So that journal became my friend, lover, homie, confidante, truth-sayer, ride-or-die, secret holder, teacher, student…you name it, it was it.

And when you become familiar with something, you get this crazy sense of comfortability. Lucky for me, I knew an inanimate object would never betray me. So I openly took off the masks and fun facts and laid bare before the screen of the Mac (to be honest I just thought that was a cool line, I gotta broke down HP laptop that needs to be updated badly 😅) anyways, I stayed vulnerable for that laptop and that journal because it was the only place I felt comfortable enough to be me.

And it was also like my only friend.

But like all good things, they come to an end…or a screeching halt. And one day I wandered into a slightly uncomfortable place with foreign people and little did I know they would eventually become my framily (you know your friends that are so warm they just feel like family?) Yeah…all of a sudden I went from like none to like nine new friends. It was a lot of newness to sort thru, so in the beginning I just told my journal all about them but looking back, I wonder if it new I would soon replace it for them???

I asked my page if my suspicion was right, but I think it’s mad at me, because it still hasn’t responded as it looks back at me blankly.

#WritersBlock

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