I'm nineteen, now. I no longer write stories about tragedies I cannot understand. In fact, I don't write stories at all.
I don't have a creative bone in my body, to quote myself, some months ago. Except creativity is not a bone. It's a muscle. And you don't truly realise how true that is until you lose it, and something as simple as coming up with a metaphor or a rhyme is foreign to you. Even this journal entry has been tough to write, and it doesn't flow as I would like; it feels awkward, stilted.
When I was twelve, I had three little sisters. A few days ago, sibling number six was born.
My father knocked on the window of my bedroom at 4 o' clock in the morning so I could unlock the door and let him in. My first sleepy question was, "Boy or girl?"
"A girl," he answered. "Lily."






You should stop by
I could spend hours here!
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