Hart

Friday, May 3, 1861 My brother is going to kill me. Kill me or laugh at me—or something. If he ever finds this book… this… Heavens I don't want to say journal. However, I suppose that's what it is. A book where I can write down my thoughts. I'm sure not able to, nor have the capacity to, do it in life. In real life. And if mother ever sees this… I shudder to think what she would do to me. This is my father's journal. I found it here last week in an old trunk shoved back in the loft of the barn. I find things to do so I don't have to go inside the house. I have my reasons. I suppose this is a safe place to share those reasons or talk about why. No one else is going to come up here and read it, but I know my feelings. So, why should I write them down? Because my grandfather did. Because I want to be in the house as little as possible. Because I need to talk to someone. Because there is something in me that I can't explain. Something dark.