I used to write a diary. Not that it did me any good. I have no idea where the pages that I wrote throughout my early youth and teenage years are right now. Perhaps they’re still back inside the attic of my parent’s house near Vancouver. Maybe someone’s come across the nine books and has paged through them listlessly, having hoped to chance upon something substantial, something worth keeping, something to exchange for food, but finding instead only the rantings of a young girl. Perhaps it’s been used for a much-needed fire. If it could have helped someone, I’d be thankful.
The chances for that, however, are somewhere dangerously close to zero. It’s more probable that my old diaries were incinerated when the bombs fell from the skies and that the ashes have long since been transported by the wind to the darkest corners of this dead earth.
Merci pour la lecture!
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