Member-only story
Personal story
My Secret Blue Diary
Second week of October, 2025 — my family, the sun, and the clouds.
Today, the sun tries to squeeze his lithe golden body through the metal labyrinth of clouds. I can almost hear him roar with the effort, his molten muscles straining and bulging like impetuous meteors.
He succeeds and peeks through the clouds, smiles, and winks at me.
“Don’t give up!” he tells me.
I look up at him, frowning.
“Don’t give me false hopes,” I say. “That’s what you always do.”
The sun yawns at my lack of appreciation and turns around to look for another victim to seed optimism into. I stare back at my computer.
I’m supposed to continue editing my novel, but instead, I’m writing my Medium diary. And instead, I’m thinking about hopes.
We don’t realize it, but we constantly hope for something.
We hope our art will turn out good and successful.
We hope our businesses will flourish.
We hope our children will grow up to be good people — to find good jobs, proper partners, to have children of their own, and to outlive us.
