The Secret Notebook

I've had this secret notebook since I was in my early twenties. It's filled with all sorts of random things, notes on books I read, dreams I had, little doodles. But there are also these tiny lies and secrets that only exist between me and the paper. Like last week when we went to visit my parents for dinner and they asked how work was going. My boss has been super tough lately, piling on projects left and right. So in that moment, I lied through gritted teeth about everything being hunky-dory. But it felt so real when I said it, like I believed the words myself for a split second before they were out of my mouth and into thin air. That night at home, as soon as I walked through our door, I knew I had to write it down in my notebook. The whole fib came spilling out, along with some other small fibs from earlier that day, you know, the usual little white lies we tell daily. It’s funny how sometimes these tiny deceits can feel so big and heavy, like they’re going to crush me if I don’t get them off my chest somehow. The notebook is a strange release valve for that pressure.