Dear Steemit Diary…

I will tell you every thought I have, every emotion; the good the bad and the ugly. I will show you all the important people in my life, and the ones who only pass through.

It’s all in code, embedded in the lines, between the lines and in the hundreds of pictures.

You can see the people in my eyes, but I’m the only one who can recognise them. On some pictures there is a person standing right outside the frame, even though I was all alone. In many I speak to someone, someone who will never even see the pictures.

I’m never truly alone in any picture. Movie ticket, scrap of paper, business card, a polaroid, a book, one dollar bill, all seemingly carelessly lying around, reminders of people, speaking volumes.

You are in my pillow, but Your scent no longer lingers in my shirt. You touched me once, and even though you touched softly, I can still see the marks in my skin. I can still feel You.

I go back to a self portrait 5 months ago, a portrait of me alone, but there you are, I can see myself watching you. I scroll down to a sunset shot taken far away, and there you are again, just out of reach of the lens. I accidentally dig out a picture of an oak tree, and it cuts me deep, much deeper than a paper cut, in it’s digital form.

I read an old post and remember texting you the same time I wrote it. So irrelevant to the subject, yet you had an impact on it. It’s right there, between the second and the third paragraph.

I could photograph the white wall on my kitchen and even that blank inanimate structure speaks of you, years after.

Sometimes I wish they would all stop talking, just SHUT THE FUCK UP, _{but who would I be then?}

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So I keep writing into my Steemit Diary, fully aware of the consequences. I can not burn you, I can not hide you.

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Only I can decipher you. I alone know what it all means.
It’s a conversation, one-sided, but not a monologue.
Let us keep it all between us. I trust you.