The item that I was incredibly attached to as a youth is my journal.
My journal became my attachment; I took it everywhere I go during school.
It is filled with my innermost private thoughts that no one else, besides me, can ever perceive. From entries of certain days to venting my negative emotions, from writing poetry to writing down dreams and nightmares I had, this journal of mines remained besides me and I never let it out of my sight.
I get looks from other students about how I always carried my journal around. What they didn’t know was that my journal was my only companion since I never trusted anyone in my school, so I treated it as if it was a human being. If they don’t like that, then they can go fuck themselves. They don’t know anything about the pleasures of keeping journals.
Ever since then, I knew right away that I have what it takes to become a writer. After looking through my written works in my journal, I knew instantly that I have a gift of writing stories, poetry, and personal entries based on my experiences. These works, to me, appeared that they should be shared to the world for others to see me as the person I am today, so that others can relate.
And it got even got published.
That journal? Glass Bones and Paper Skin.