Writing

She runs her hand down the smooth, green exterior of the journal. The last word was written on the last page. Three years of her life contained in the journal. She smirks as she flips through the book, catching bits and pieces of words. So this is angst.

So much drama, so much pain, for what? The anecdotes were sometimes amusing, always embarassing. Had she really believed that? Did she really pen all those words? But like a dangerous conversation being taken too far, the words soon turned sour. How annoying she sounded. How exaggerated her emotions had turned out to be. It had all been fake, after all. Every time she furiously scribbled into the book, thinking she was in the midst of some emotional whirlwind, when all she had been doing was creating her own disaster.


Writing in her journal was the mental equivalent to cutting (not that she ever tried it but from the stories she'd heard). It felt good for that brief time you did it, but afterwards, looking at the results, you felt small, stupid and insignificant.


It was mistaking the mole-hill for the mountain because she had been right up close to it. Simple as that.