I am one of those who write in journals knowing,
somewhere inside, that we really want someone to
read this. Not blatantly, but somehow, some
way, we want someone to know. Why else would we
write it down? Sometimes the readers are only ourselves,
changed by days, years, or even hours, changed
into different people who can read objectively what we
wrote back then.
Sometimes the readers don’t exist.
What would it be like if there was someone you could really
talk to, someone you could tell all the
things you only write in your journal and scratch out later?
What if that person would still love you, even
after hearing all your insecurities, stupidities—what if that
person could still love you?
R.S. Farris
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/journals/
