Thursday, July 7, 2011
6:23 p.m.
Lower East Side, Manhattan
A new journal. Finally. The last one taking me well over a year to complete. In the end, I’m finding a new beginning. I’ve fallen back into the rhythm of writing. Funny how writing to myself is the only way I actually feel heard.
But that’s the way it is. At least that’s what I’m starting to suspect.
No one else seems to understand.—How could they? They’ve all had someone before. Never have I ever had someone who would pick me first.
I guess somewhere in all this journal writing I started to pick myself.
Maybe this is it. My journals are my friends. These pages get me. And they laugh at all my jokes.
So with that, I’ll continue writing. This is my story as I live it, and I can’t think of anyone better to share it with than myself.