Hello stranger. I have not written in a long time.
That is not entirely true. I write sparingly in my diary—about ten pages per year. Ten pages are enough. Enough to capture a day where nothing happens. A day where I feel lighter than air. Enough to capture the days of despair that draw me to the pages of my diary, days where such a weight is placed on my shoulders that the earth beneath me trembles.
My writing has been for my diary. To my diary. This is the first time in two years I write to an audience. To you. But I do not know you. Why are you here? What do you like to read? What makes you laugh? Do you remember the stars?
And you do not know me. The empty pages of my diary know me better. Those pages know me in ways you cannot. They have felt my tears.
They will know me in ways you will not.
So who am I writing for? Not for my diary. Not for myself. Not for you who does not know me.
Here I write for nobody.