My Dearest Diary,
I’ve written so many letters for the people I love, the people I would love to meet, the people who don’t even know me on you and I’ve come to realize I haven’t written one for you. Though I believe there are times when I express my gratitude for your existence, a letter is still different so I hope you regard this as that. A letter that isn’t waiting for a reply. Anyway, I’m blabbering here. It’s as if I don’t know what to say to you at all even if you probably know every word I have written or uttered to myself, alone in a room. You’ve known me for more than a year or so and you’ve let me express everything I couldn’t in my poetry, in my stories, in my art and in the conversations I have with others and with myself. I would like you to know that I’m often too careful of what I say to myself but with you here, I am free. I know you’ve witnessed me writing some of the harshest things I have said to no one but me and I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you felt that anger, that self-hatred, but thank you for letting me see who I am when I feel I’m not me. Those are the parts that I hide so well from the world and from myself. Those are the parts of me that I don’t understand, that I don’t fully accept. Those are the parts of me I deem as foreign, alien even. But they’re part of me. They’re who I am. And you let me write them, you let me express them, all these voices I have cupped my ears for. And I’ve realized, I have so much more to learn about myself, the fears I have, the insecurities, the unused energy reverberating inside of me. Positive values and negative traits, they’re all me. Parts of me. I am fragmented. But with you here, I feel whole. You contain all of who I am. Maybe not all, definitely not all, but you posses the parts of me even I can’t face. And you’re doing so unapologetically. So… thank you. With all my being, I thank you.