My first real journal was black, rimmed with a delicate gold pattern. It had a lock and two keys. I wrote in it everyday when I was thirteen.
Looking back, the journal is full of words, but more insightful are the silences. No where is it written how I truly felt. Any hints of truth have been blocked out or coded. Full pages have been removed.
Despite the privacy of my journal, I felt unable to voice my truths. My heart. Lest it be opened up, revealed, taken on by prying eyes and ridiculed and dismissed. Or worse, my written thoughts hurtful to those who stumbled upon them.
I want to cradle my young self and let those truths flow through her.