I grew up knowing that journals are private and should be respected. No one told me this.,but somehow it always seemed to me more like a sin than a mistake to read one’s journal without their permission. Journals are a shrine,an oracle maybe. You have to be let in before you get in. After getting in you tread carefully should there be codes you don’t understand you don’t ask. I love writing and always wanted to keep a journal. I however fail terribly at any attempts to be a private person. Alpha females lead the pack.,and the pack never leaves. At home I shared a room with two of my sisters who I could not trust with my written thoughts and plans. When I got to highschool it got worse.,a dormitory of fairly above 60 girls and in class yet another sixty you can hardly ever have time to guard your privacy. I’ll skip the bit where I had two best friends making my secrets and thoughts,those I wanted in a safe safest in my heart. Then campus happened. The thoughts got heavier and perhaps I was running out of space within. I met people I thought would best be kept in my diary. With a little privacy and less close friends,voila. I don’t write people’s names,just the deeds I want to keep,the memories worth cherishing and lessons worth revision. My rules are quite simple; don’t look at my diary,don’t touch my diary and if you do don’t ask me about anything you saw in there. And hey I dislike you for that you know. Reading people’s stories on word press makes me a little shy to publish my own. The depth don’t match. My page feels much less like a journal.,public display of my private life. But unlike my journal you’re free to read and leave a note.