The Art of Living on My Skin

Previously

…“Dear Diary,” it read, the handwriting firm and steady, “I used to think living was about avoiding mistakes. Now I know it’s about making them, laughing at them, and then writing about them. It’s about the wobbly shelves and the inside-out shirts and the cats who critique your juggling skills. It’s about embracing the glorious, imperfect art of being me. And you know what? It’s pretty darn beautiful.” Pip closed the diary with a soft thud, a contented sigh escaping their lips. The blank pages no longer felt like a challenge, but like an invitation. An invitation to continue living, to continue writing, to continue becoming the wonderfully chaotic masterpiece that was Pip.