I have a journal, I used to write in it all the time, and suddenly I took on a very unfavorable adult trait, forgetting to write in it, about my feelings, what I think; what I think about what I think, how I feel about what I feel. And now anything resembling talent has been lost from not practicing, and alas, I seem to do nothing to change this. Oh sure, every now and again I’ll open the old girl up and write a few sentences, but the fervor, the need to do it is gone. Why? When exactly did it go? At what moment did I lose it? Or is it just misplaced? I read the writing of others and think to myself, “my God that’s good”, and I pale in comparison, so why even bother? Perhaps that is all, then. If so, why not just stop that constant comparison to others, for not only does it hurt you, Sara, but has no redeeming value, like for example, actually helping you. So logical, aren’t we? Logic and reasoning, advice and pleas of truth do no good when ignored. And I can’t make her listen to me, or rather she can’t make me listen to her. How does the old song go? “What good is sitting alone in your room?” Yes, that’s it. I’ll tell you exactly what good sitting alone in your room will do you; you can write, Sara, write about all those things in your head, some because better to write it in your silly book then to let it spill out of your mouth to hurt someone. You always come to such wonderful conclusions about yourself and the world in there, and now it’s as if you are hiding from yourself. Because that is what she does, she forces you to look at yourself and make honest judgments because you can’t live with yourself when you hide under the guise of false beliefs about who you are. You are straying from the good person you were trying to become because you know she wouldn’t like some of the things that you think, and say. You know that when you go back to her for guidance, which will hopefully be soon, that she will tell you the cold hard truth as only she can. For she is the only one that knows you deeply, and knows to tell you what you ought to be doing, rather than lie to you. For every year your physical body gains, your subconscious counselor who comes out in that journal gains a hundred more of experience to use and teach you with. What a waste! You’ve taken the first step I think; in writing this you have at least figured out the bulk of the problem. Good luck, and perhaps tonight you will pick up the pen that sits even now a few inches from you hand, and revisit her once again, she needs you too.