When I was younger, I had a diary where I wrote down everything that happened to me on a daily basis – what I did, what I felt, who I was with and how the day ended. Until the day I found out that my Mom read all my diaries.
She didn’t tell me outright that she read them. She made subtle hints, teasing me about some things and “knowing” certain things that I have worked so hard to hide.
I used to write poetry. Random words that, to me, makes sense. I poured my heart and soul in my poetry. Letting the words that I cannot otherwise voice out, be heard on paper. Although didn’t let anyone read it, just the fact that it was there – written in ink and for me to read back to – was comforting.
And one day – I stopped.