There's an old journal that I keep in a drawer, at the bottom of my bookcase, underneath other books, papers, photographs and random tat. It's a rich blue journal, with a gold ribbon inside, thick quality pages (you know the kind that just feel wonderful?) and an image of a flower embossed on the front.
It's only half full. It has some old train tickets stuck inside, notes scrawled throughout; some dated, some not. It has a photograph or two, and a whole load of doodles in a range of pens (I never use pencils).
It's a book full of misery, it only tells tales of woe. It speaks words of shame and desperation, etched throughout the pages like a deep and painful scar. Deep and raw emotion scream out on the page, half told stories, cries of worry and sentences that never end.
This book is a token from the worst year of my life.
