A Diary

Dear Diary,

I just want to say that I enjoy writing in you a lot. I'm not sure why i do, I suppose there is something about the smooth glide of the ballpoint pen over the diary page as my fingers press lightly down on the cylindrical plastic frame, forming letters, words and eventually sentences. I gives me a sense of satisfaction and release as the ink pours out onto the page all the worries and unforseen joys of my life. A cohesiveness is formed in my being when I write an entry. The welding of emotion, situation and logic begin to make more sense and become more solid as the mist of ambiguity in my mind fades under the reassuring guidance of handwritten words. This is how I feel about writing entries in you. And, i get the feeling that I will always write diary entries. It feels so natural, a completion of who I am.

A diary is also a testament to a person's life, a secret piece of evidence of their rich inner world. The mind preserves a few memories, it's true, but memories and charateristics of people and places written down take on a different life altogether. Psyches only preserve that which is essential and details of situations may fade into a amnesiatic oblivion from which there is no return. A diary can preserve that which might of otherwize been lost in the constant shuffle of cognitive data.

Also, when the years of one's life accumulate with the march of months and lost hours, one forgets who they once were and begins to fail to see the commonality between them and a younger generation preparing to take their place. " Stupid Kids..." the forgetful ones say, forming the youths into an enemy to be feared. If a diary is kept, all one needs to do is reach out and open to a page of one's youth. An understanding will be formed in the aging mind " These people are not my enemies... they are simply a different form of who I was many years ago."

A diary is a history. Though it is true that these histories arent filled with documentation of wars fought with gleaming metal blades and hard wooded shields at the ready; it does document an epic struggle of a soul. The battlefield is the mind, a grand cathedral home to the innumerable counselors of the psyche. These counselors shout, rage, whisper, plead, cry and laugh, each struggling to be heard over the next with the aim to win the greatest influence over their being's path. The diary captures these clashes and surrenders, a complete and seperate history unto itself.

These, to me, are the purpose and joys of keeping a diary.

Your Diarist,

ScribbleScribe