I’m locked into this device.

I want to be free to write, like Ann Frank, like some of the people who didn’t think anyone would read what they had written in secrets.

I want to write like an undiscovered diary, that isn’t refined or worried about what other people would think, but raw, and in ink, and not typed like I’m doing.

For fear of judgement, or fear of misleading, I type on eggshells, because words shared on a webpage can be posted in a moment, and potentially cause effects that last a lifetime. There is no taking back a statement shot around the world in an instant.

There is reform in my writing, growth in my typing. Backspace hides my mistakes that would be otherwise scratched out; illegible behind scribbles, but their indents still present. If nothing else, the blotch is a reminder that their had been correction.

As I write for all to read, an open book, my life, my struggles and my everything. I share from poetry to concepts and grieving, there is still chance it will go unread. Maybe I didn’t write something as captivating as the one last week, or maybe it did not create enough posts in-between. There’s a possibility that what I write will change one life; bring them toward a more holistically human life. It’s changing. With each word, it feeds. With each  writing, leaving something not yet seen. If that human was me, then it’s my publicly placed undiscovered diary.

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