Dear Journal
From the moment we met we were one, dear Journal.
To me you’re more than just an empty book.
You are a therapist with leather binding and I can scream my frustrations through my pen!
Since finding you, dear Journal, when I slit my wrists I don’t bleed blood, I bleed ink onto your pages.
To me you’re more than just an empty book.
You are a canvas, and with my color plate of emotions, I can paint vivid pictures in the minds of those who slip past me and read you.
Do you understand, dear Journal?
You are a tunnel that can lead me to other places, other times, to other worlds all of which I make, control, and escape to only limited by my imagination. Take me away from this cold, little word and embrace me in your pages.
Your blank pages are an empty vault waiting to be filled with all of my thoughts, secrets, feelings, obsessions, insecurities, memories, desires, the list goes on!
In a way, dear Journal, you saved my life. Had I not discovered your pages I would have been lost in the world, locked up, strung out, abused, abandoned, hurt, broken, beaten.
Security.
Acceptance.
Power.
You’re more than just a black leather book, sitting on my end-table at night, because together we are king and empire, we are warrior and sword, scholar and knowledge. With you, dear Journal, I am a God and your pure white pages are the world I rule.
My pen and my imagination are the only tools I possess, so now as my trembling fingers open your smooth cover, I know it is time for us to go forth and create.
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