I pulled out a simple journal and on the front cover, I wrote Escaping Dream. This notebook will be the home of my deep thoughts and fantasies. I opened it to the first page and skipped it. This is gonna be hard but oh welp.
Not long ago my grandma died and like
With my other grandma, I felt
But I cried because
Everyone around me was doing so
I wonder when it started
When my friends became my family
When I “changed?”
It feels too weird writing my thoughts. I guess this isn’t gonna work. I slump into my bed as I grab my cracked phone. I had no unread messages.
I wince inwardly as I hear my mother hit my younger brother for “talking back." I thought we were supposed to defend ourselves so why do you contradict yourself?
Thinking back on life. Was I always
When did I start facking my happiness?
Why didn’t I question my uncaring self towards my grandma’s death?
I wonder if my mother and father are at fault for this?
Maybe I’m just looking for others to blame.
Quickly hiding the small notebook under a pillow, I pretend to do my homework. As mother passes my door frame and goes into the kitchen. I don’t like the way writing my thoughts feels like but now that I started I just want to continue. I turn to my big Winnie the Pooh and in my head ask, “Why am I so contradicting? Why am I like this?” As always there is no response. Just an empty stare from his black eyes.
Like an average night, it passes.