Dear diary, April 19

Dear diary,

boy do I sound corny. I guess I'm writing this to document my life journey. From who I am writing this now, to who I will be when the last of these blank pages if filled with meaningless black ink scribbled into shapes and symbols suddenly with meanings of a thousand feelings. Who will I be? Will I have completed my biggest life goals, working as a doctor or a stockbroker or something boring and grown up? Will I have met the man of my dreams? Or will I be scared and alone, rejected by both the world and the people of the world? Will I have conquered my fears bravely or will I have just gained more? What will my mother and father think? Will they help me pay the fees of the lifeless college lectures, or will I have to work for hours and hours for a small percentage of what the people in those tall skyscrapers work an hour for? What will the world be like? Will everything be more harsh? Will there be floating cars and will we be on a different planet? So many variables to the thought that I could think about it forever. And even after that I could think about it. The thing is that time is a difficult and scary thing to play with. Kinda like fire, unpredictable and sensitive. You have to be careful with it otherwise you could lose it and never get it back.

Until next time, B.P.