First it was the diary, bounded by a flimsy plastic lock. Then came the journals (big and small), then the instagram and twitter accounts, then the (failed) blog. I always return to writing, somehow or other. I know I’m not the best writer— far from it, really. Words just are what I’m comfortable with.
Lately, my thoughts have been a tangled mess. Less so than before, but still confusing, disorienting. Frightening. I am getting better, I am not as sick as before. But I know I have a long, long way to go.
I hope my words make me feel less alone, though I know that my words will never contain the true essence of how I feel. Words are imprecise and flawed, and there is no going around it. I will have to make do.
Hello! I am a young soul. There is much I do not know, much I want to know, and much I do not know I want to know. I hope you bear with my foolishness and immaturity. My journey has just begun.
I am a stranger, a face in the crowd, and I want to share my story.
a face in the crowd 