DEAR DIARY,
I’m always so happy to get back to you. The truth is, I never really feel like myself until I’m with you. It’s as if I can reveal myself only to you.
I know I could write this on my phone, or maybe with one of those diary apps on my laptop. But I like the feel of your soft leather cover, the rich glow of your creamy paper, and the pen in my hand, the scratch on the paper that seems so real, so close from thoughts to words.
You are so close to me. You are my private listener, Diary. Away from all snoops. Away from everyone who might misunderstand me. It’s so easy to eavesdrop online.
So let’s start a new page. We are all about fresh starts, after all.
Yes, I’m excited. So many possibilities, so many dreams to fulfill, ambitions to achieve. And should I say danger to face?
A fresh start for me is all about new friends and experiences. New guys. New laughs. Even romance? What a quaint, old word.
I feel a warm glow as I think about this, Diary. I know I’m not a talented writer. I don’t need to be a talented writer to tell you the truth of my life.
But fresh starts always give me this warm feeling, this tingle of excitement. So many new ways to satisfy yourself . . . to satisfy your hunger.
Yes, Diary, fresh starts mean so much more to you—when you are dead.
