One Page Unearthed Diary


I’ve kept an occasional letter/diary to commemorate an extraordinary moment through years. This is one of those moments.


11:21 pm

Dear Blackwidow,

I sat by balcony railings admiring the night. I was scared at the thought of falling off, on to roof if I get lucky. How could they not love this darkness? Moon. Stars. All calling my innermost desire since I was a kid. They must be frightened by folklore tellings of ghosts, or horrific creatures living among those trees. For some reason, it doesn’t bother me at all. I imagine growing tendons and hinges, flowering the thickest feathers in the planet. I soared.. circling.. swimming in wind gust. Then I screamed, That’s right motherfuckers! I exist. You hear that. I exiiiiiiiist! Somehow, it fears the hell out of me to let anyone hear or see.

Those trees.. I used to have nightmares for how many years since I was a kid. A crowd of thousand men running after. Not aware of what they’re up to. I just know they could harm me. I would climb up those trees and try to fly..even if I can’t, I would still try until exhaustion shakes subconscious.

Writing has done miracles. It has liberated haunting music in my ears. I was careful to scrooch down in one unlit corner just enough to let a few know there’s something..but not distinct enough to know what it is. Only constant relationships, raw as it may seem, are those who have deciphered a bit of my wicked deliberation in blog. Well some by new acquaintances like Ms. Kitty and Little Ratty. I am careful not to let out so much. But I found words possessing, stripping off for truth. I don’t want to be found. Social media accounts scream for thousands unread and unanswered messages, while I let the phone steadied by uncharged battery. Those with approving pass to engage the past few months were left behind without warnings. Today, I explored writings and stories of strangers. It made me feel estranged. A freak. Maybe I should wait for funny, sarcastic me to come out before scribbling.

This is online anyway. Although there’s already a face to my hands which took months to decide, I’ll be safe in this shelter. After all, everyone takes this opportunity to become exhibitionists.



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Abby Mabb

Snarly female. Occasional book reviewer.

Espen Stenersrød- From Pen To Heart

Jack Kerouac with a scent of Henry Vaughn

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"The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the power of my soul, whom I have tried to portray in all his beauty, who has been, is, and will be beautiful, is Truth." Leo Tolstoy

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