DEAR JOURNAL
It starts with pen to paper. A record, an account of the past. Sounds denoted by digits, digits and sounds combined in the mind. Intertwined like the cords of a tether, a ball of yarn in the labyrinth of the mind to negotiate memory. How much we leave to memory, how much we leave to chance.
The facts of the world and youth moulded at whim. But the world is changing and history is changing with it. I guide the ink on the fabric of the paper, eager to record the words of the world. Before I have to think, before I have to remember them. And taint them, with the snap of a synapse. I don’t trust me, I am the most unreliable witness. My hand moves in perfect rhythm, as it breathes words onto a page, I ought to learn shorthand. If only I had the time.
Words, words, words and no time for thought only the majesty of the written word. Everything else is mere distraction, this shall be the first truthful account, every breath recorded, no time, no opportunity to fabricate, to lie, concrete truths only.
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