These are a few journal entries I wrote when I was 13. I had just came out of the worst years of my life, sent away to live with an aunt and uncle on a big, foresty, family-owned piece of land in the country. I was a very lonely kid, and wrote at times about my thoughts and anticipations of love, all directed to the ‘one true love’ that I was very eager to find. Yet I knew I was getting ahead of myself. Here are a handful of entries I thought were most interesting. All written very well for my age then... though I’ve edited it some. Enjoy.

“There is a prairie between the apple orchard and the pond where dandelions grow peacefully, unpoisoned or uprooted. When I sit among them, running my fingertips along their many soft and bright petals, I can’t imagine them to be weeds, but flowers. Whatever weeds and flaws you may possess, I promise to smile at.. understand and appreciate them. Even wear them in my hair, as I do these dandelions.”


“My grandpa, a talented owner and caretaker of many gardens, tells me that there is a flower that can bloom in the dark of the night, when all flowers wither and retreat. Like this flower, my own darknesses are what will eventually shape me into a woman beautifully mystifying enough to be fit for you. Embracing what breaks the heart, rising above the ashes reborn- as the phoenix, who burns with knowledge and life. Through time and devastation, my heart will have to be swift, brave, and sly.
Not unlike the task of picking the berries from the mulberry bushes that grow near the beehives my grandfather keeps to pollinate his apple trees. If I didnt’t approach these bushes slowly, gingerly, and with a watchful eye, I would not escape the swarm of bees I would upset, let alone bear the fruits of the bushes. But, if I tread lightly and thoughtfully, you will have your wondrous night flower in time- which would be, in this case, the glistening handful of mulberries, so pure of color they stain the fingertips.”


“I think that my deepest fear is never finding you in these sometimes seemingly godless hills. That I will eventually wither away, trembling as the years go by under death and time’s kiss, alone."


“When it is about to rain, the birds stop singing and the sky dims romantically as the air begins to thicken, flowing through my lungs with a pleasurable humidity. Storms, to me, are charming electricity, bringing such a elevating feeling that I’ve recently come to anticipate. Like I’ve imagined sex to be, the rain ripples skin, leaves the ground shapeless, and envelopes everything in it’s watery oblivion. It transforms the whole forest into a even more magical place. And I love it. When it rains I come home late, leaving trails of muddy footprints and splotches of water.”


“The first piece of piano music I taught myself to play was Pachebelle’s Cannon, in D. I know the song so well my fingertips seem to play it themselves, allowing my heart beats and breathing to flow with the song as my mind wanders elsewhere. The song carries me to a place where I can almost smell the roses of romance. Where I can almost see my own reflection in the eyes of the one I intend to love. It gives me, say, glimpses into my future, where I am fully grown as a woman. Fully fit to partake in such things.”

Anyways..

That's all.