life

Hello, darling people—the very few, if any, readers I have. If I were a stalker, I would stalk myself. I think I’m quite interesting, but boring enough to be stalked, I suppose.

Today, I think I’ve decided to write in the journal my father gave me for my 17th birthday. It’s been sitting on my bedside shelf since August—now it’s November. But I think it’s time. I’ve been looking at it, trying to figure out if I even want to. Things are complicated with my father. It's a love-hate relationship, but I don’t hate him—I hate the fact that I love him. It’s hard to accept gifts from him knowing the things he’s done to our family. So it’s just confusing receiving such a meaningful present.

On the front page, he wrote, "May you find comfort in your words." That has completely puzzled me, and I don’t know what to write. I’m probably overthinking it, but I want to make sure I write perfectly in it. And I hate that I care about that, but I do, sadly. I even learned how to write in cursive just to make sure it looked good in the journal he gave me. But since then, I’ve just been writing in my notebooks—about random things: poetry, my book, life, stories.

Now, even saying that I’ve decided to write in it feels wrong. Every once in a while, I’ll pick it up, look at it, cry, and then put it back down. For some reason, I imagined keeping it with me until I’m old, still having not written anything in it. But I think I’ll put poetry in it—just random stories, things I’m proud of, keeping track of all my “accomplishments.” Not that he would say much about them anyway.

Wish me luck.