i confess it made me uneasy - makes me uneasy still - to think that this little book was out of my possession even for two days. the thought of another person reading my words is most discomforting. i cannot help but think how another person would interpret certain things i have written, for when i write for myself only, and know perfectly well the truth of what i write, i am perhaps less careful of my expression, and writing at speed, may sometimes express myself in a way that could be misinterpreted by another who would not have my insight into what i really mean. thinking over some of the things i have written, i can see that they might appear to a stranger in a light rather different from what i intended, and i wonder whether i should tear these pages and destroy them. only i do not want to, for these are the pages that i most want to keep, to read later, when i am old and gone from here, and think back to the happiness of [life].
~the thirteenth tale, diane setterfield
it's a strange and eerily comforting moment all twisted together when i read something that so mirrors what i feel sometimes. did she just telepathize herself into my brain noodles?? weird.