How could I imagine being any other place than here?
I started this diary with the intent to make sense of all the missing pieces, but I’ve been writing in it for over a year now and I’m not sure this was ever meant to make sense. Is the girl that wrote in this diary a year ago the same person I am now? I read what she wrote, and I can’t understand her… I can’t remember what it was like to be her.
A year ago, all I could write about was wanting to escape, but how could I imagine being any other place than here? Every day is already so difficult that I couldn’t possibly imagine having the energy to escape let alone find a better place for me… if such a place even exists. On top of that, I see no evidence that it’s anything other than my own fault that I’m not happy. If my own diary contradicts itself, why would I think I can be trusted to accurately portray my experiences?
But every time another letter arrives, I can’t shake the feeling that something about them feels true despite being no closer to proving their validity or figuring out who could possibly be behind them.