Novel & Cerita Thoughts Diary

It's for your own good. Why do I write it then? - someone would ask. I think it's mainly for myself, probably not to go completely crazy. I have to get it all out and put in order. Maybe after reading this later, I will notice some pieces of the puzzle that I missed. Yes, that would be a nice surprise for sure. If I could understand all of this, I would definitely feel so much better, especially mentally. But on the other hand, I'm a little scared. I don't know how it all works, but what if they know when someone is writing about them? Not necessarily in public, but like at all. What if this diary will bring their anger on me? What will happen to me if they come? Will they punish me? And if

However, I can’t help but worry and think about things that’s yet to come. I opened my room and the thing that caught my attention is my mini-cabinet because the diary is inside of that one. I can't help but be curious about the next dates of March and yet I don't want my anxiety level to go nuts. I decided to take a quick shower and go straight to bed.

~ Alice I stretched lazily across my bed, one leg hanging off the edge, completely unbothered by the world. The curtains were half open, sunlight spilling into the room like it had something important to do. I, however, did not. My diary rested on my stomach, pen tapping lightly against the page as I stared at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Annoyingly thinking. Day… I’ve lost count. “Rowan is so annoying,” I muttered.

My throat burned. I grabbed a half-filled bottle of water I had left on my desk and gulped it down at once. The feeling came again, rumbling down in my stomach. I couldn’t tell if this was pregnancy-induced or the pool of blood that kept flashing back to my mind. I got to the bathroom before I let it out. The sink was covered in my puke. I ran water over my face. I dragged in air slowly as I walked back to the office. A diary caught my eye as I packed every file and document back into the drawers. Pink colored thick-covered diary. This must have belonged to Victoria.

Not surprising, I know, but shockingly, there was a heart-shape around my name with multiple smaller heart shapes around it. “What the heck is this?” It was clearly Tristan’s handwriting, judging from the handwriting in his diary. I dropped the book on the table and paid attention to the words on that page of the diary. ‘I’m more than frustrated today. I was tired of thinking of Hazel and over-working but then, my hands wouldn’t stop writing her name with heart shapes (paper stapled beside). What is wrong with me? I even stapled it? This is crazy, I want to stop thinking of her, but I just can’t.’

he ignored my question and called the server. “Do you have anything spicy here?” “Um...like what?” “Never mind, Do you have French fries?” “Yes.” “I will bring it.” When the server left, he turned to me. “Then what’s that note? Any study stuffs.” “It’s my diary. I will write about myself and my daily life. But I don’t feel like writing it anymore” “Why?” he said without taking his eyes off me. “Cause nothing good happens in my life, so why should I have one. I want life to be happy, interesting with a little of passion, adventure, love which I never found.”

Port in the Storm Dear Diary, I know I’m probably too old for this, but my best friend is on digital detox and I hate almost everyone at work enough not to engage them in my silly misadventures. I would have probably told my mother by her grave, but somehow writing this down feels right and more real. It feels like I am telling a supernatural spiritual being, perhaps an angel? Who knows? They might be real after all.

Damian, even thinking‌ his name makes somethi‌ng shift uneasily i‍nside me. I slip ou⁠t of⁠ bed and gathe‌r my journal from the sm‌all bag I brought with‌ me. It is worn a⁠t the edges, the pages slightly wr⁠inkled from being stuffed into too many‌ tigh⁠t spaces. It is the‍ one thin‌g th‍a‍t has stayed co⁠nstant⁠ throug‌h eve⁠rything. When my world spins out of control, I write, Ink is st⁠eadi‍er than thoughts and paper is m‌ore forgiving than⁠ memor‍y.

LESLIE’S JOURNAL ENTRIES 001 ******* Dear Diary, Scratch that. Dear Journal? Well, you’re sort of pink, handmade and gotten from the roadside stall of a little girl working on some class project so maybe you're really a diary. However, I am going to pretend this is a journal and this is the beginning of me journaling my new life in a new city. I read somewhere online that it’s a therapeutic practice. For me, it’s an escape. The only way I can express myself in a world where I feel more alone than I have ever been.

Someday, I would probably throw it out and that day may be sooner than expected as the pages were slightly browning and some of the older written words blurred into one another. I’d started writing too, I’d read somewhere online that it was a great way to table your thoughts. Too many ran in my head lately but it was a new year and I’d made that resolution to write in a journal everyday. Was it difficult? Yes, I wasn’t used to it. I either thought too much or didn’t think at all but it helped me channel my thoughts.