Random Quick 抖阴社区s (RQW)

~~~~~To the journals that carried my heart through the years~~~~~

When I first opened my eyes-blank, crisp, and full of promise-I found myself cradled in the careful hands of a young girl. Her fingers trembled slightly, a delicate dance of excitement and fear, and her breath caught in her throat as she composed the very first words across my pristine first page. Each stroke of her pen was a whisper of life, filling me with the potential of her thoughts and dreams.

For days that turned into weeks, she poured her heart into me without pause. I became a vessel for her innermost thoughts-her dreams of far-off places, grocery lists scrawled in hurried cursive, and poetry that danced along the margins, rich with raw emotion. Half-formed sketches of flowers, stars, and doodles of imaginary creatures spilled into my pages. Some days, her words rushed out in a torrent, messy and urgent, as though she couldn't contain the excitement bubbling within her. Other days, she was more deliberate, pausing to tap the pen against her pursed lips, carefully crafting each line with precision and intention. I soaked it all up, holding every secret, every sigh pressed between my pages like cherished memories.

Then, one day, she stopped.

I sat quietly on her shelf, spine straight and proud, nestled between an old yearbook, yellowed with age, and a stack of novels she always promised she would read one day. I waited patiently, as a journal must. She returned occasionally-a spare entry here, a burst of inspiration there-but mostly, I collected dust, resting in the muted light that filtered through the window. Still, I kept her words safe, for that was my solemn duty, after all.

Just when I'd nearly given up hope of being remembered, she found me again. For days on end-what felt like an eternity-she filled me with her vibrant life. New dreams poured onto my pages, worries carved in ink, and bold declarations of love that would soon be crossed out with shaky apologies. She doodled wedding dresses, envisioned cities she longed to visit, and left notes to herself urging not to give up on her aspirations.

I was full again, alive.

Until the day the desk drawer slammed too hard. I tumbled from my place of honor, sliding between the wall and the heavy oak desk with a soft thud. I landed spine-first in the dust, unseen and unheard.

I waited.

Surely, she would miss me. Surely, she would clean beneath the desk, move the furniture, and discover me, longing for my words.

But days turned to weeks, and weeks blended into months.

I listened to her life unfolding above me-the clack of keyboard keys punctuating the air, the jangle of keys dropped carelessly on the desk, the muffled sounds of laughter echoing through the room, and, on quiet nights, the soft, broken sobs that seeped into the floorboards. Through it all, I remained hidden, forgotten.

Years rolled by.

The room transformed. The golden light streaming through the window shifted with the seasons. Voices I didn't recognize entered and exited, each bringing change. Boxes were packed and unpacked, filled with memories both old and new. I began to fear I had been left behind for good.

Then one day, tiny, sticky fingers fumbled blindly beneath the desk, brushing against my edge, crumpling me in their excitement. I was yanked free and blinked up at a silly-looking boy with tousled curly hair, bright, gleaming eyes, and a grin that could light up the darkest corner of a room.

It wasn't my girl.

Still, he tucked me under one arm and carried me away like a hidden treasure. I bounced against his hip as he dashed through the hallways, and when he finally plopped down cross-legged on the floor, he cracked me open with eager anticipation, gasping at the words inside.He didn't truly understand them-not yet-but that didn't pause his enthusiasm.

A crayon was soon jammed into his chubby fist, and bright, whimsical shapes sprang to life across my blank spaces. Smiling suns radiated joy, crooked trees stood proudly on the pages, and superheroes with capes made of lightning soared through my margins. He drew in the spaces between the lines, sometimes scribbling right over the old words, each stroke a burst of youthful imagination.

I didn't mind at all.

He carried me everywhere: to the park where laughter floated in the air, to the sterile doctor's office filled with the scent of antiseptic, and to the backseat of the car where road trip adventures awaited. He propped me up beside his dinner plate, where spaghetti sauce splattered across my pages like a culinary explosion. At night, he tucked me under his pillow, the weight of his dreams pressing lightly against my cover, wrapping me in the warmth of his innocence.

For a while, I lived in color.

But boys, like girls, eventually grow up.

The joyful drawings slowed, the pages began to dwindle, and one day, he approached me with a serious look in his bright eyes, no crayon in hand-just a thin black pen, almost too adult for his small fingers. He wrote his first real words, tracing them with care: "Dear Diary. Today Mom said I'm getting too old for toys."

I ached for him, just as I had once ached for her.

As time passed, he grew prickly, a little moody, and a bit rougher with his hands. Occasionally, he would flip through my pages, laughter bubbling up as he gazed at the old drawings, a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia flooding his features as he confronted the wild imagination he once held so dear.

Still, he kept me.

Even when he shoved me into a drawer, burying me beneath a pile of homework, even when months would drag by without a glance in my direction, even as his life pulled him toward interests that didn't quite fit with silly shapes and heartfelt dreams.I stayed.

Because that's what a journal does.

We hold the first flickers of hope, the wildest of dreams, and the deepest fears. We are forged for the keeping, not the forgetting.

One day, when his heart grows too full and the world feels unbearably heavy, perhaps he will find me again. Maybe he'll flip through the crinkled pages, tracing the vibrant crayon suns and tear-smudged words with a newfound tenderness.

Maybe he'll remember that once, a boy with sticky fingers and bright eyes believed he could draw the whole world into existence.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll pick up a pen and write again.

I'll be waiting.