The Journal

I like writing in my journal. It helps me keep track of my life over the years despite the intervals being utterly irregular. It helps me recollect my memories, learn from my mistakes, pat myself on the back occasionally over a few achievements. It makes me laugh, cry or even crib when reading certain entries. I began maintaining a journal since I was eleven solely based on my passion to write.


She liked to write. She thought that she was good at it. Dumb headed twat. Why did she not realise her true potential? Why did she not realise that she cannot write and what people say about her writing is a whole load of horse shit? After all, what became of that seventy odd poems of hers? Flushed down the toilet eh?


As a result of my like for writing, which over a period of time grew to love, I decided to make a career out of it. A journalist. Not as prestigious as it may sound: severely underpaid and awfully overworked. But Kitty, life was good. I enjoyed what I  did so much that that the little smoke-filled wooden box became home. Life was indeed good. I had never been happier.


She always wanted to write about lifestyle, maybe a little on fashion – despite her minuscule knowledge on the subject and unforgivable fashion faux pas –  as opposed to heavy-weight articles that completely changed her “style” of writing. But then again, who said that she could write? Wasn’t that a self-made, self-believed delusion?


Her passion for writing made her a journalist. For a while at least, before she  succumbed once more to the pressures of education and academics. She knew that she is not a “book-person”. She apparently considered herself, “street-smart”. Between you and I Kitty, she was neither. She was just dumb.


Kitty, today I am not myself. I feel dyslexic.




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