Why I write

Ever since I was little, writing a diary was my way of organising my thoughts. The early diaries are full of stickers and doodles, the reasoning and logic of a ten year-old being charming and incredibly shallow at the same time.

I remember writing on it, sitting by my big wooden desk with a wobbly shelf attached to it, a green placemat covering the scratches I made to the table surface with my black refillable pencil.

When I grew older, diaries travelled with me, all the way up until about 10 years ago when I moved to London.
For some reason writing in English came more naturally for me after a while, but I was not able to write as much as I used to do.

This was odd, since writing was a way of letting off steam and finding out if things that bothered me really were that big of a deal. But, I ceased to write and I am now wondering if that has contributed to my head slowly tangling into a mess.

Now writing this is a different step altogether, since I am writing to (an imaginary) audience, with a potential reader maybe one day passing by.
This does make writing this text a much more self-aware process, and rather than just being a stream of thought I do edit it a bit.

Even though I didn’t intend it to be like that at all.

I never read my old diaries, or if I do it does overwhelm me slightly, like revisiting the old problems or situations I were in back then.
It almost feels like once you put your pen down and close the cover over the thoughts they are gone, and sorted, like a conversation.
It happens and once done it evaporates into air and is not attainable any more.

So, I don’t think this will ever replace the diary I am hoping I will start writing again.

 

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