I am one of those who write in journals knowing, <br />somewhere inside, that we really want someone to <br />read this. Not blatantly, but somehow, some <br />way, we want someone to know. Why else would we <br />write it down? Sometimes the readers are only ourselves, <br />changed by days, years, or even hours, changed <br />into different people who can read objectively what we <br />wrote back then. <br />Sometimes the readers don’t exist. <br />What would it be like if there was someone you could really <br />talk to, someone you could tell all the <br />things you only write in your journal and scratch out later? <br />What if that person would still love you, even <br />after hearing all your insecurities, stupidities—what if that <br />person could still love you?<br /><br />R.S. Farris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/journals/
