As an introvert or writer, you may have always kept a journal in which you wrote down your thoughts.
Ever wondered if your journal has any thoughts of its own?
The name she calls me is probably her journal, jotter, or notebook, but I call her “Maybe,” just “Maybe.”
The reason why I call her “Maybe” is because she sings this song “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen nearly all the time, which goes something like, “Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe.”
It doesn’t matter if she has an interesting plot in mind; she’s either too lazy to get up and write about it, or, by the time she starts writing, she has forgotten about it. It consumed her for days, not knowing what to write about. When she opened up to me today after ages, I was expecting the same old puzzled expression that wonders ‘’what to write about?’’.Her writing style is childish, just like her heart. As for her writing something, I’m glad she’s at least trying because she usually doesn’t bother to do that. He also thinks I’m too pretty to have petty things written on me. I appreciate the compliment, but I can’t stand the idea of being confined to a shelf. On top of that, she’s beguiled by her phone and assignments. So, guess who else is in a good mood now that she’s writing? Her mother,or in her words, her momma. When she entered her bedroom, she found Maybe sitting on the study table instead of sleeping. As Maybe wrote, the thought crossed her mind, “What if what I’m writing has already been written?”,but she brushes it off quickly and continues to write.
It would’ve been easy for me to tell you what she’s writing about, but I respect Maybe’s boundaries. She would’ve told you if she wished to. She shares her thoughts with me because I have that rare quality, I listen, I’m an excellent listener. Unfortunately, she doesn’t find this attribute in many people around her. Writing in dirt makes it impossible for anyone but her to understand what she wrote. She writes in dirty handwriting to ensure no one can understand her entry since she fears someone will read it.
After some time, her mom calls her for breakfast, and they talk. She may explain how she will be leaving for lunch soon. It intrigues me where she will be going. I envy that little mirror in her polly bag that gets to go everywhere with her. I don’t know when she will return, after an hour or some minutes. Rather than going to malls, I would like to see people stroll through libraries and bookstores. It’s my wish that maybe I will keep this mood of creative euphoria for as long as possible. I hope she fills me up with all her thoughts and her stories, with poems that sing of her happiness and misery alike. I hope these pages of mine serve as a canvas for her mind to run free on. Being her confidante means the world to me.
For I am her journal.