As a young teenager, I was the kid who regularly wrote a diary. I’d spend plenty of time just recording details of my daily life into carefully decorated notebooks I would hand pick at book stores and hide behind other things in my cupboard (even though everyone knew about them and they provided me with abundant privacy). In retrospect, that was the one kind of writing I enjoyed the most. It was solely for my own pleasure and peace of mind. I could write whatever I wanted, including the devious darkness that I often encountered when battling against myself. I could pick up and turn to a random page, go back to particular days (almost like time travel), laugh over my own flaws and fallacies, and sometimes, even tear the pages I didn’t like anymore. There was a place for all the petty drama; moreover, there was a place to hide and ruminate my non-existential being.
Of course, that wasn’t going to last long.
Eventually, I had to catch up with life. School, projects, homework, parental nagging etcetera etcetera. I began to have lesser time to write about my life and before i could wrap my head around what was changing, I had lost the ability to sit and jot down, with intricate sensitivity, the minute occurrences making up my life.
Always having lived in my diaries, I found myself a little uncomfortable and daunted at the thought of having to communicate with other people about what was going on with me. Consequently, I grew up to become a distant person.
Distance in the sense that I did share myself with people but it lacked the delicacy and sincerity I’d indulge in while writing my Diaries. Since the diaries always felt like home, nothing could compare.
Somewhere amidst all this longing, the distance became my identity; one i haven’t been able to give up. I am the closest to myself, everyone is. But I used to be closer and i miss it.
Overtime, I have made constant efforts. I’ve started anonymous blogs to replace my Diaries but failed miserably. I’ve tried to write a diary again but i can’t seem to make it. I had a phase in the middle where i wrote one (or more) poem(s) everyday. It would say a lot about my day in minimal words. It lasted for about a year, helping me cope up with a lot of changes and negative feelings, and i loved it. But like all good things, it ended (talk about cliché sentences)
Even in the due course of my public blogging (Blogspot and WordPress) I’ve often spent evenings writing about my day, but seldom have I actually published anything. It’s a kind of creative dead end, I would say.
Although lately, I’ve come up with a new theory. Maybe I’m trying too hard to go back to what used to be.
My Diaries were my first home. Like First Loves, I’ll always compare every form of catharsis to them. And till I don’t stop doing that, I’m never going to find a new outlet to make me whole.
About time i got that straight.