I was on the train on friday. After school, 3:45 pm. And I had run to catch it. Can you imagine me running. I bet i look like a total babe! Lol! not!

I'm running, and this is to deagon station. ew. So I hear the train toot its horn like "ima comming from sandgate" type horn so I go flat out, run run run.
Subsequently I am extremely out of breath, and my heart's racing.
I'm totally unfit.

I hate it when people can hear me breathing, so I try to open my windpipe real wide and regulate my beathing.
I get dizzy, light headed, start coughing and create more of a scene than if I were to have just breathed loudly.
Maybe me coughing made the people at the station think "oh, shes not an unfit fatty, shes just asthmatic"
I bought my ticket to Toombul (my nails needed backfilling). and with like thirty seconds to spare I sat down on one of those holey metal seats that are covered in gum.

This has a point I promise.

I can't really remember the exact words (what with not enough oxygen getting to my brain) but the boy on the seat next to me said something.
And i registered that I knew him.

I tell him how I just ran for the train, and he was like telling me how he almost missed it aswell, although he didn't look nearly as exhausted or as sweaty as I did.

We get on the train, and he sits like opposite me, in one of those fourseater thingamajig seating designs.
Thankfully, its a pretty new train. Anyone remember the ones with the hideous green upholstery? Ew. Not them.

And we talk a bit more.
I tell him I'm going to Toombul. He says he's going home. Kangaroo point. He catches the ferry, I think thats pretty cool. He works at McDonalds apparently, and he's going to see his favourite poet and hopes to get an autograph.

Eventually our conversation shrivels and dies and we lapse into a not uncomfortable silence. But I'm worried it will get uncomfortable, so I figure out how many more stations there are till mine.
We're at Nudgee.
So thats Banyo, Binda, Northgate, Nundah.
Four, thats not too bad.
I look out the window but if i focus my eyes properly i'm actually looking at his reflection.
He pulls out a book
Its spiral bound and made from what looks to be recycled brown paper. its pretty small. But he also gets out a pen, and he starts writing in it, furiously.

I was just sitting there like "oh my god! What is he writing?!" it was so obviously not school work that i was freaking out.
What is he writing?
Is it about me?
Is it his secret journal?
If it's either, why is he writing in it on the train, where I or anyone could just read it?
He likes poets, is it poetry?

I just get really really obsessively curious about his book and what he's writing.
I keep "looking out the window" or rather staring at his reflection as it fills up, half, one, one and one half, two pages with his rushed, cramped writing.
Bizzare, huh? Well to me it is anyway.

I get off at Toombul, and its awkward, because I do not know him well at all. He's going to lend me his Gotye album, cos somehow he ended up with my Regina Spektor album, a month or so ago.
Don't know how that happened.

So I go to Toombul, get my nails done, that was all very boring, the end.

Which brings me to the subject of this journal Entry
"Why I Don't Have A Personal Journal"

Answer -
I'm paranoid.
Obviously that someone will read it, and it will
A)Hurt them
B)Make them think I'm crazy
C)Make them hate me
D)Make them act weird around me forever.

I also dont like putting things down on paper.
like...its definite then.
Thoughts arent tangible, you can never be sure if they're there or not, but words,
Words are real, and so are sentences, which I think I find a bit daunting.
Like, its okay to think something, but as soon and you write it, its like someone knows you think it,and thats bad.
Your journal knows what you're thinking.
Its disgusted in you.
It despises you, and what you think.
It listens, and then it knows. And once you tell it something, once you make your thought tangible, you're terrified.

Hence - Why I Don't Have A Personal Journal.