Dearest diary

Dearest you,

It’s been almost a year since I had fallen of a saddle, both emotionally and socially. I think it happened on a normal day, the clouds were blue in its perfect palette, the sun shun so brightly it made Van cleef weep, and the world was busy in its last phase of normality. I became panicked suddenly, afraid of the day, the night and the clicking big hand of time.

I suffered suddenly from a panic so real, so strong, so si féroce, that I stood seated beneath my horse, on the floor. Learning to breathe. Inhale et exhale at 10. Playing the voice of my silent beloved friend, Mr Millman. Oh I felt like Sophie Becks without the Valentino, the drivers, the opulence. I felt like broken child self minus the zeal to allow affluence to direct my low self worth. I was betrayed by most. How was I to ever get back on my saddle, ever again?

I was shaken up to my innermost core, torn to a mere torn page in its finest ink et linen. Oui, of course let’s never forget the wax R stamp.

Gee, I fell so quick, that it shook my world to its pieces. I was frail like I was when I discovered that I wasn’t the girl she said I was. She tore me on the inside, and threw me to a lion in my best breeches. Sure, why did I ever think I were to be lucky?

Un fou.

I am Rianna Shaikh, this is my diary to my readers. How I missed you darlings, terribly so.

Forever a Writer.

J’adore toi,

RS