I stood there, immobilized by what my eyes registered. An input from an inanimate object particularly, a journal. Who wouldn’t freeze?
I had to say, it was smart, employing the words I jotted down ages ago, and assembling them into a letter addressed specifically for me, substituting its lack of speech. The letter wrote:
Dear Owner,
Why?
Why do you address my name as Diary? I am Steve.
Why do you assume that I care about your life events? I am also not your specific someone or a parent to express your day to day story. I am merely a bundle of paper grouped together.
I am a choosy object. Unless you are famous for something, you have permission to use me as a biography.
Why do you settle your dirty hands upon my clean sheets?
Why do you expose your inner fears and vulnerabilities to me? I am open like all of my brethren books.
Why do you torture me? You stuff me into your bag, cramping me with all your belongings. I am a delicate book you abusive human.
I am infuriated.
Sincerely not yours,
Steve
And the realization came like a freight train. This was a notepad. This was a hard copy of a draft for my blog.
RedefiningRandom 