A short piece on my silent thoughts about writing in a journal and how private things need to be kept private.
A diary is like a confessional… the burial ground, the seed bed, the debating arena of all your deepest, darkest fears. No matter how large or small it is, it probably holds the biggest drama of the Colosseum of your life.
Inane or important, the words you write in it are of value to you or to anyone you wish to share it to. Which is why privacy is a necessary, albeit unspoken rule in diary-keeping. Oftentimes, it is the only refuge for a person to write down her troubles, and make sense of her loss. Or even simply, it is the repository of anger so it will come out only as screaming ink on paper, and not fists and yelling.
So, no, Ma’am, you cannot steal your teenager’s diary and yell at her because you’re upset of what she wrote about you. Maybe it would have stayed a healthy way of coping instead of you throwing theatrics and making it all complicated. It was never just about you.
If you see me nodding my head slowly and silently, I am not agreeing with you entirely, but it probably means that I’m writing in my mental diary, the words…that rhyme with truck and university. #Peeves
Edit: it’s 6:30am now, and rereading this made me realize how i need to edit some more, and how i’m fond of using lengthy sentences broken by commas.