Dear Diary,

I've been a bad girl.

It's been at least 30 days since my last confession. And what a tornado of whirling events those days have embodied. Varying between fascinating and colorless, sweltering and numbing, lively and sluggish; overwhelming me with their honesty.

I've been globetrotting in my own backyard. Searching the stars. Trying to look beyond the forest and the trees. That type of thing. I kissed the champagne moistened lips of a boy who will be crowned King; assuring him I would always be his Queen. I slept through the birth of my conscious, and purged several years of discord through vomit and sweat. I satisfied a long-term goal during the short-term with time to spare. I sacrificed everything and gained nothing in return - which was so much more valuable than something.

Yet I never came to you. I failed to run to you. Unlike the little girl from ages ago, who bounced onto her bed eagerly preparing to chronicle the zenith and nadir of her life's every moment into her magic velvet-covered diary. Giggling. Biting her lip. I remember the purple pages that once smelled like lavender and now smell like stale incense and time. Those pages that I have forgotten. They have been shelved; postponed indefinitely. Like historic artifacts, archived for nobody.

I know I have neglected to tell you how these current events have changed me. How I swallowed them. How they melted in my mouth like bittersweet dark chocolate. Because I retain the memories only for myself. My little warm selfish heart which knows no other way. Falling prey to the popular characterization that I am aloof and elusive.

I can't share everything. Some things must remain a mystery - even to me.

Pop quiz: If a naked girl is dancing in the window, but nobody sees her - does the naked dancing girl exist at all?

(She's sitting right here.)