As spring arrives, I find myself dreaming of the outside world more and more. The thought of freedom, of feeling the sun and fresh air, is almost overwhelming sometimes.
I've been thinking about what I want to do when the war is over. I want to become a journalist, and then a famous writer. I'll write about our time in hiding, about the war, and about all the things I've observed about people.
Peter and I have been talking more. He understands my feelings of confinement, my dreams. It's nice to have someone close to my age to confide in.
I don't want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I've never met.
When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that's a big question, will I ever be able to write something great?