Dear cellulose object,
I guess this is how you're supposed to write a diary.. dear something.
This is my first page and will probably be the last.
I feel so stupid keeping a diary.. what am I supposed to be writing? My thoughts? My life? There's nothing interesting to know about me.
Why am I writing as if somebody will read this? How pathetic.
Okay, maybe on the first page, there should be some intent outlined. Why did I decide to start writing?
Well, why not? I actually don't know what I am doing. Was it boredom that brought me here? Who knows?
Most likely, I feel like I am changing a lot lately, so this should act as a testimony - or testament - of the person I used to be, I am, and I will be. In case the change turns out to be negative, it should be easier to go back to my old self, a sort of factory reset. Is that even possible for humans? Does that make sense?
More realistically, I am writing on this piece of cellulose just to complain about my life. I can't say my life is bad, but it's not good either. There's just a lingering sense of unease that has towered over me since I was a child, but there is no actual cause. I really shouldn't be complaining. There are people in far worse situations who don't dare to complain.. so why should I?
I have a family, a cat, plenty of food, a roof over my head, and I even have a bunch of friends.
Yeah, I definitely shouldn't complain. Then, what else should I write? I already wrote 276 words about the nothingness of this existence.. I even half-presented myself. How bizarre, I didn't mean to when I first started writing.
If I present myself, then I'll feel forced to write more useless pages.. which could actually be a good way to find motivation.
Yeah, definitely. I made this diary by destroying and blending together a bunch of old notes from past lectures; I definitely can't use the excuse of wasting money if I don't fill these pages.
Until I have this diary-writing newfound hobby.
Bye, my recycled little creation,
Vera