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A Start. Maybe.

January 4th. That’s when I started writing my diary—not the 1st, not when I was supposed to. Already late. Already behind. And that feeling hasn’t left me since.  

I keep skipping things I shouldn’t. I sign up for things and never follow through. I tell myself I’ll get it together, but I don’t. Money slips away. Time slips away. I try routines, I set goals, I make plans—nothing sticks.  

Every conversation feels like I’m talking to myself. Every piece of work I create is full of I, me, myself. I can’t escape it, and honestly, I’m tired of it.  

But here’s the thing: I need to be stronger than I am. I need to get my driver’s license. I need to stop running in circles before I turn 20 and wonder where all this time went.  

The diary feels like a sham, but at least I’m still writing, I guess. I had not even written it for a long time. Maybe that’s something.  

I want to know that the sun is there even if its not facing me. I want to feel the rays on my back and trust that. Never see the sphere, the hot ball of fire but still believe in its light and heat. 

I want to believe.

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