Diary

I took the notion a couple of years ago to keep a diary, to counteract my startling ability to totally forget things that matter to me. But 'keeping a diary' is a deeply unnatural thing for me to do, so despite trying as hard as I could to fulfil my obligation (which was how I saw it), I lapsed after a few months. For one reason and another, I've taken to it again in the last few weeks. I've also started looking through my old entries, to see what I've forgotten. I expected this to be highly embarrassing: but it's not at all, because even in my most private outlet, which was for no-one's eyes not even my own, I write with the same English detachment, caution and moderation that I have in every other aspect of my life. So the most explicit and raw sentences I get are ones like "It occurs to me that I might be jealous, but I'm not sure." I don't know whether it's that my soul really deeply does just want to read books and drink tea, or that I'm repressing my emotions in a more comprehensive way than I can even guess at.

It feels a bit like a waste: but I guess it isn't, because were I not to have told myself that at that time I felt jealous or whatever, I almost certainly would have forgotten. I also probably would have forgotten the entire episode. And that would've been sad. So I guess the diary is worthwhile, even if a bit disappointingly dull. If you ever find yourself in my room and take the notion that you'd like to read my secrets, then probably you're better off doing something else instead.