A sign in the margin I didn't mean to write

I've been keeping a kind of private marginalia for years — stray thoughts, half-lines, things I'd never say out loud. Tonight I went back through an old notebook and realised how much of it reads like it was written for an audience that doesn't exist yet. Somewhere between the quiet and the page, the unsaid becomes a thing. I think that's what I'm actually doing when I'm supposedly thinking.