Ficly

Dear...

Dear Diary.

Why do I speak to you like you will ever respond? For that matter, why do I keep you at all? It is a rare occurance indeed when I feel the urge to flip back through your pages and even then I am remembering details which I opted not to commit to paper. When others seek to read you I hide you, so I cannot say that your purpose is to make my past known to others. I remember more than I write, so it is not my own memory needing aid. Why do you exist? Why am I asking YOU this?

I suppose, in your purest sense, you are a vessel in which to place my musings. You are, when all is said and done, a convenient outlet for the overflow of thought which results from an overly active thought process. You are an anthromorphic solution to a gaping lack within my life.

You’re the only one who listens, which is incredibly sad once I realise, once more, that you don’t listen. You’re a bundle of paper, bound in leather and covered in ink. Perhaps it is time to find a better alternative.

Hmm…

Dear Ficly…

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