Context to Reader

I am not a writer.

I don’t pretend to be one, and I don’t wish to be one.

These are not books. These are fragments of thought — unfinished, unpolished, but honest.

These words are not literature. They are not carefully crafted works of art. They are fragments of thought, moments of imagination, and the things that pass through my mind when silence gets too loud.

Sometimes they will sound unfinished. Sometimes they will contradict each other. Sometimes they will ache more than they explain. That’s the point. This is not a book — it is a journal.

I write as I feel. I write what I see. I write what lingers.

If you are here, you are not holding something polished — you are holding pieces of me.

Take them gently, or leave them quietly.

Either way, they were never meant to be perfect.

Only honest.

— Di