I have an old, flat box in which my old, embarrassing diaries are hiding for ages.
I was about 12 y. o. when I started the first one, and in my mid-twenties when I gave up writing the last one. None of them is “finished”, and there are enormous time gaps between them, I think I tried to start a new life with every notebook (and I always failed).My problem is: I need them for one of my novel ideas, and I just realized I can’t even open the box. Not because of the rusty lock.
I am scared as fuck.
Like the journals were evil monsters from the past, waiting for the moment they finally can jump into my face and stab their claws into my heart.
I am pathetic as fuck.