This isn't Me

As I hold my pencil in trembling hands, I'm plagued by silent thoughts. Who will read this? What should I write, and who will read what I put down in words? What had seemed so simple became nightmarish. I was writing to put down my thoughts, to prove that I had indeed walked on Earth; to leave a document for future generations of my family to read and see that I had not been all that different than they are. This was for them to read, but I was starting to wonder about others who might enter into these private thoughts of mine.

My thoughts turn to Anne Frank, and if my pencil had ever been steady, it began to lower itself. She had never known that her most private thoughts would be shared with many people world wide, and yet they had. Perhaps she had known that her journal of captivity would be let loose in the minds of millions, but if mine will be shared I do not know. I want to write about so many things, to sort them out on my own time, and keep them to return to when the same problems arise; but now, I have the urge to destroy every last word that I have already written. Why did I even want to write? What was the purpose if I was just going to worry about who would read this? If I edit my words, it becomes someone else. If I don’t, my worries will haunt me forever.

Marisa B.