I’ve kept a diary since 2007 and I write in it every day. Without exception. I cannot not write about my life any more than I can not breathe.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am an inconsistent person.
“Inconsistent” is a mild adjective; I’m brutally incapable of focusing on anything. I’ve started and abandoned projects at critical junctures. Nobody will work with me. A lot of people get frustrated with my intellectual ability and total lack of follow-through. I see the look on others’ faces when they’ve heard that something I’ve tried my hand at has failed. Or that I’ve started up again.
(It’ll shock nobody if I say that this post has been sitting in queue for nearly a week.)
My diary-keeping might be the only exception to this trend. I do it every night. It’s my cleansing ritual, my daily meditation, my session of written diarrhea. After I finish writing, a little part of my burden is eased. The analytical zip codes in my brain fire on all cylinders, and soon I unconsciously come up with a game plan or a way to reassure myself things will be all right.
It wasn’t always this way. I always wanted to keep a diary, but it seemed as if I was doomed never to keep one. I never remembered to write; and, if I did, the prospect of recording an entire day’s worth of events felt scary. Life holds so much vibrance. How could I capture everything?