Thoughts Diary Novels & Stories

I'm thankful that I don't have any close family members, that I still have a lot of money, and that I can buy love when I need it, which isn't often given the circumstances. What precisely persuades individuals to keep diaries? because egotism is inherent. Self-interest is the most fascinating thing there is. Regardless of how long you expound on your sentiments, diaries can't make you wheeze! Something thoughtful is a clear, white page that is hanging tight for one's impressions!

Whenever I got nervous, I would freeze up, my mouth tightening, while my mind raced at lightning speed. This meant that in moments of danger, all I could do was curse in my head a thousand times while waiting for my inevitable doom with a smile. What I didn't know was that my mind-reading skill was not the kind where I read others' thoughts. It was the kind where others could read mine. Right then, everyone—the players, the boss, the viewers—could hear everything I was thinking. As the muscular man approached me, my legs stiffened, but my brain was running wild, thinking, "I remember Aleena saying that big guys tend to have small manhood."

Thank you. I would love to hear from you guys in the comments and reviews, please. Let me know what you think and help me to get better. Thank you. I also want you to know that, as this story draws to a close, I already have more titles in the Street Diaries series in the work. Yeah, it's gonna be a series. Love you all.

Let up from screwing with me. And as I did anytime I was feeling agitated, or just drained, I wrote in Ayla: my diary. My hand sought her, and when I held her in my grip I unbuttoned the latch securing her pages. Pages of my sweat, tears, joy; and pretty much my whole life. I passed my fingers over the beautifully old pages, my hand flipping through phases of my life. My fingers halted on a page. It was peppered with numerous love emoticons, XOs and exclamation marks.

Cara was still deeply immersed in her thoughts as she sat at her desk, scribbling in her diary. Her pen glided across the pages with a sense of urgency, trying to record every detail of the dream that had been haunting her since her therapy session. Her therapist, Jean, had told her that documenting her dreams was crucial to unlocking their hidden meanings, pushing her to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t just a casual assignment; it was part of her journey to better understand herself, to untangle the threads of her subconscious mind. The idea of writing fiction about her own life felt strange, almost surreal, but Jean had explained that it was a way to externalize her feelings and memo

Annie's P.O.V You know, if someone had told me that today was gonna be the day I was gonna die, then I would have at least prepared beforehand. Was there a way to stop my death now? When my mum was flipping through the pages of my diary with that disappointed and angry look on her face, and now, that look was directed at me.. My diary was like a second me. It knew everything, my life, my friends, my curhses, my wishes and inner desires, and oh… did I forget to mention that I sometimes cuss at my fate of having her as my mum? Damn!

"He might see me as a threat, but deep down, he's a protector at heart. Unlike us, he sees the bigger picture—our survival!" But I was unprepared for the inner turmoil that decision would cause. I had been keeping my latest visions a secret, writing them in a small leather-bound diary hidden in the drawer. Word by word, they flowed from me like water until I could no longer suppress the looming danger that was creeping closer. Each sentence felt like a breadcrumb guiding me down a path I wasn't sure I was ready to walk.

Sierra's POV Everything is overwhelming. Sitting in my room, I examine every little detail: a desk with a spinning chair, a big bed that's way too big for just one person, and a big bathroom with a big bath that would swallow me. I sit on the floor because I don't want to get the nice new chair filthy with whatever is on my clothes and body and I look at what's in front of me. Paper. Pen. Thoughts. Dear diary. Do I even call it a diary or is it dear paper? Either way, it doesn't matter.

I pull out the drawer from my study desk and see colorful diaries of mine which I started to write since my high school, every year with every new colors. They are of brown, lavender, purple, pink, sky blue and black color. Altogether, there are six diaries which I had written in last six years. I had filled them with all the emotions at that time. My fear, my anxiety, my excitement, motivation, my frustration, my madness, my anger and the love I always had been yearning for. All of them were mentioned over there. All of the five diaries were complete but I had never been able to complete the last diary. It’s because I had never been able to write and explain the things that had happened to

I'd read through this diary at least four times in the past three days. Each time I finished it, my hand always found its way to my chest, right where Caden and I's bond sits securely. I worry more, my fear increases and I touch it, hoping to get answers. He's alive, that's all it tells me. The diary itself isn't done with the finery I would have used if I were ever dedicated to writing a diary. It's all short sentences and observations, mostly thoughts that go from one realisation to the next and right back at the beginning.