Dear Diary,
I feel, as I write this, like I'm back at 2006, watching Barbie movies and buying pink notebooks and wishing that whatever it is I write about becomes true. Should I have a magic lock also?
But this isn't a secret, is it? I make this ramblings public and pretend as I'm at it, that I don't care how it turns out, that it doesn't need to be perfect or pretty, and that whatever it is that I'm writing is effortless. Well, I'm not actually putting that much effort into this five minutes before bed, but my lack of auto-confidence and the irrational fear of being judge, still makes me double check every spelling, makes me re-write whatever it is that feels clunky and sounds like obnoxious overthinking. Whatever it is the finished and polished result posted, it's close enough to the truth that still feels like looking on a mirror, similar but wrong sided.
I wonder how true anything can really be behind a thick layer of varnish.