3/21/24- 7:09pm

I’m not sure why writing has been hard for me lately. I think I can’t stand the silence of it. I should be finishing this journal by now since my lease is up at the end of the month. I have started a new journal the past two years coinciding to moving into a new apartment. Maybe it’s because I’m resigning this year.

I love this apartment because, in a way, I became an adult here. I think of myself more as a teenage adult (I wrote a poem about that the other day). I started my new job in this apartment, became financially stable, and loved myself a lot here. I also bought my first adult couch (it’s a corduroy slate grey color). There’s something very adultish about buying a piece of furniture that wasn’t passed down from your sister’s college house, or didn’t come in a box with a million pieces and a book of directions.

As a writer, its weird to watch yourself grow. To be able to flip through the pages and see yourself mourn, heal, pray, and transform. I’m not sure anyone else reading these would feel her future self coming to the rescue in some ways. Silently pointing her in the direction with words, always showing her the way back home.