Scribblings from Seneca

[Els]

Because life is made for sharing.

[Els]

Didn't have time to write anything yet, so... XD

[Els]

Once upon a time there lived a girl.

Her name was Seneca. Well, to be precise-

It wasn’t. But I am her Journal,
and that is what she wrote.

And sometimes writing is better than truth. Those are her thoughts, anyhow, and her thoughts are what I hold. This is what a Journal does, in case you were born yesterday.
I would not use such a clichéd phrase, but she does, and I am her Echo. I am a fragment of her Heart, a splinter of her Soul.

I am her Words.
I am her Life.

Today she was happy. She generally is, which means today she was normal. Normal is the wrong word, though. Normal implies a mundane sameness. And that is not Seneca.

No, today she woke alive. And living is enough to make her joyful. When the strange seagull cry from her alarm clock woke her, she smacked it into silence, pulled herself out of bed, flung on her clothes- (not to say they were not neat, for they were, and tasteful)- and meandered out to the fireplace, where her procrastinating brother was troubling over homework.

This was life. She was content.
And a new day began.

(view spoiler)[ this is the incoherent journal entry she jotted down a few days ago in English class, not what happened this morning. No, this morning was something else... (hide spoiler)]

[Els]

((commenting so I'll be able to find this journal again))