My mither as\9t
My mom asked me to do a book report of The Secret Garden, because today I finished reading it (for the 43rd time).
It’s about a ten-year-old girl named Mary Lennox whose parents die in India, so she’s sent to live in her uncle’s huge mansion in England. She’s very spoiled at first, and she finds out that her uncle’s wife died ten years ago and he locked up the garden.
So, it’s a book about Mary tracking down the locked up garden and making some friends.
I really like it because it feels so magical, with the boy “animal charmer” and everything in the house, and everything about the robin and the actual secret garden.
once i went to a coffee shop and in one room of that coffee shop was a white piano and a white bench and a marker and people had written stuff all over the piano and the bench with the marker and honestly i thought that was so cool.
i really like that kind of stuff.
i think it’s really neat.
people years from now may never meet you, never know you, never know anything about you, and you can scratch something into a tree or a wall or write it on a chair and someone out there will see that and know you exist.
you know what would be cool
when you’re about to move out of a house, leaving a note somewhere. maybe a letter. or part of a journal. or would that end up getting cleaned out? either way someone would see it.
i like thinking about that kind of stuff. i want to do that kind of stuff. leave notes in cracks and write on trees and just. leave little messages for people who will never even know me.
it sounds like something out of a story. well i’d read that.
someone moving into a new house and finding a journal about the life of whoever lived there before them.
i think that should be a thing people do. leave notes all over the world. maybe it is. maybe not. i guess people don’t really think about that kind of stuff.
not just because i want people to know i exist. i want people to have the experience of finding messages from someone they’ll probably never meet. messages meant just for them.