If I filled a journal just for you, how long would it take before my words transformed from simple and mundane to deep and meaningful, knowing they were only between you and me? A love letter of me and my thoughts, bound together and shipped straight to you. Would their meaning be seen, dissected, and strewn across the room? Or would they even be given the chance to be read? Would you pour over each word and trace the outline of the ink? Or would you sit my thoughts on a shelf to gather dust, like a photo from the past?
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