The pen bleeds through these journal pages and it takes with it pieces of me.
I’m not sure where to start but somehow I always finish.
It doesn’t make any judgements even as the handwriting becomes less eligible.
I don’t know how else to describe it but it feels incredible.

I can’t figure out when I began this little hobby, must’ve been when I was young. It always feels like I pick it back up every time I begin to get sprung.
Not quite sure what that means other than that I need to get a life.
This journal has seen me write so many letters, including some to my future wife.

More specifically I’ve written more letters to my future kids, but who knows if they’ll ever come.
The more years pass by and I’m not helping make any I feel like more and more of a bum. Kinda.

I don’t know if this makes any sense but you’ve always been that person to me. The one who is cool with me just wanting to be. You’re my journal and you make me need no prompt.