My uncle Donald thought it would be a good idea if I wrote about everything that happened in my freshman year.
About Webby, about Huey, about Dewey...
About me.
"And how is that writing will help me to feel better?"
"In fact it will not". He told me. "You'll probably feel even worse. But that's just at the beginning. Telling the truth is something that hurts. But sometimes getting everything out is something that helps".
"But if this is going to make it worse, why do you want me to write it?"
"Because I think it can help you with everything you're feeling now. Telling a story brings some good things"
"... That includes selling the story, right?"
"If you want to sell it. Anyway, this is your own diary".
"... But I'm not sure about this ... Many things have changed since that happened. Since we got together..."
"Then don't tell anyone. Tell to yourself this story"
"But I don't even know how it was! How it started! How it ended! Nothing!"
"Nobody really knows what their life is like, everyone has different a point of view. But that doesn't matter. You're not only the author, you are the story. You can change it, add laughter, drama, mystery, terror. Everything you want. The point of this is..."
"Take everything out?"
"Set yourself free. Of your feelings, your fears, your lies, everything you have inside that does not let you sleep..."
"I-I don't know..."
"You have many feelings locked up, right?"
"They torment me every night. And... it makes me want to cry..."
"There you have it. It's the only thing you need". He got near me and hugged me and brushed my hair. "Cry your own story".
And I did that. I cried a story.
And this is what I cried.