It was midnight, I sat on the seat, silent, wounded. I took my sketch book, put it on the table then took a pencil from my pencil case. I started to draw. Line by line then shapes a face. A face of a girl who was with sadness, such as what I felt at that time.
I didn’t write a diary such as what most of people did when they got a pain, hurt, or happiness. I always get the difficulties to explain what I feel in words, not only in writing down my feeling on a sheet of paper, also in telling it to someone. Thus, I always draw something to make me better.
Sometimes, I just draw some doodles with random lines and shapes. Although not all of my drawings express my feelings, but time by time it became my diary, my quiet diary.