i miss writing. i miss writing to myself, for myself.
i used to write every night. after dinner, i'd sprawl, starfish style on my bed, elbows propping me up with my diary resting wide open on my blanket and my trusty mechanical pencil at the ready. and then i'd write, and write, and write some more about the (often very, very dull) goings on of my day. of my insecurities, my fear and loathing, my resolutions, my liquefied heart and everything else in between.
why did i stop? god knows the insecurities have never stopped and the fear and loathing, well, they've never left either. as i got older, even i found my thoughts mundane, i suppose. and then the internet took over, and penning down memories sans pictures just felt so lacking. so incomplete. so pointless. so that's probably why i stopped.
no one was reading then, and no one is reading now. and maybe that's part of why i stopped writing at all because again, what was the point? who cared? who cares? but now i'm starting to see this as a point of comfort. that this is a safe place in this big, decidedly unsafe world wide web. this is my safe place, with its virtual ratty comforter and fluffy socks. this is my safe place.
i want to come home to my safe place.