…Anyway. Earlier today I caught myself wondering why I even do this. Write here, I mean.
Maybe this all started as a challenge for myself, to prove I’m not that lazy, and see if I can stick to doing something every single day. Well, more than three years into it, I’ve already long since proven that point, so the challenge reason has lost its truth.
Maybe at some point I’d also written here to impress — as in, “Hey everyone! I write in a secret journal!” — but HA, that impulse didn’t last very long. Not only will I never willingly let other people know the whereabouts of these notebooks, I’m also not even confident my writing quality here can impress people. All my entries here are unedited first drafts. Very, very shitty.
Maybe I once believed I (or someone else) might interest myself (or herself/himself/themselves) in reading all my ramblings someday, but I know enough now to be sure that’s a stupid notion. At present, I cannot even stand re-reading most of my entries from 2011; how much more in the distant future? And I’m willing to bet no other person will be all that interested, either, because these aren’t diaries, promising to tell stories of my day to day life. These are messily written thoughts. There’s barely any continuity in them. There’s no constant cast of characters, no clear conflict, no climax and resolution, no plot whatsoever — it’s not, you know, readable. A few pages in and the reader would gladly chuck it out. Well, I do admit that sometimes I can be funny, but I’m the only person who will get the inside jokes (lol), so it’s useless.
So it goes without saying that I’m not doing this to be remembered in the future. I am no Anne Frank with a bright, compassionate, inspiring soul. I’m no celebrated genius, either. I’m an ordinary person living an ordinary life. I’d already given up on dreams of grandeur and greatness and leaving a mark upon the world — and even if I still did want that, I sure as hell don’t want these journals to be my mark. These will probably incriminate me more than bring honor to my memory! Ha.
No… Oddly enough, I realized that I am writing for NOW. The present. I write everyday, for today. I’m writing to help myself appreciate my life as I’m living it. To help think straight thoughts, when my mind is a corrupted mess. To make me feel like someone out there might be patiently listening to me. To spill all my beans without filter, and not have to make eye contact while doing it. To not feel so shut in. To exercise my writing hand.
Even if I never get to read all this again, even if no one else ever will, I’d gladly continue writing here.
(So thank you, hypothetical reader of this journal, whoever you are [if you even are] for, you know, keeping me sane all these years. For being a pleasure, a comfort, and a reliable friend to visit and ‘talk to’ after any kind of day. Sorry you’re stuck with such a mess of an author.)