Opening the Diary

Hello.

 

I am unsure as to whether that was a suitable introduction but I hear it is customary to begin a diary narrative with a colloquial. Why, I shall never understand. Perhaps it is to create a sense of familiarity? If so, then the familiarity is false. It is impossible to feel familiarity with a blank book.

 

Book in general, while part of the everyday, are not ‘familiar’ things. They are inanimate objects. Some would say it is the words written in each book which have the power to move people. This is not true. Just as in brilliant works of art, the emotion is not conveyed through the paint or ink, but through the raw passion of the artist. Books are inanimate objects. They only live when the writer gives them soul.

 

I feel like I’m rambling. I wouldn’t really know, seeing as I have little to ramble about. What does a person write in a diary? Secrets? Stories? To record the mundaneness of daily life? To detail intimate emotions? Why? For what audience, and what purpose?

 

I hear some people write because they are lonely and see an appeal in talking to an invisible friend. Some people relieve stress by ‘unloading’, removing the burden of the day’s worries and imprisoning them on paper.

 

But when it comes down it, no matter what it is you write, you’re still just talking to yourself.

 

Unfortunately I know that feeling all too well in the literal sense. Not a day goes by without Krad hissing quiet threats in the back of my mind, or tainting my dreams with nightmarish images. We both know I grow tired from his torment. Tired, and weak.

 

Tired even now, and too weak to move from the bed. Is that why I am writing this? As something to entertain my bored mind? Perhaps.

 

I am still too weak to leave the house. It was only yesterday I picked up this forlorn book for the first time and, on a whim, began to write. I suppose at the time I hadn’t really expected myself to be continuing, but seeing as there is little else I can do, keeping a diary should be an interesting experiment.

 

So for this experiment to succeed, what do I write? Do I note every task of the day? Give all my personal details and history? Explain myself? No, that would be pointless, for who else will read this but myself?

 

But then again, I thought that I wouldn't lose anything by writting. And, for the fact that this would at least make my mind as stable as possible, far from most of my worries at the moment. Sadly, what I have wrote these past few years are all tragedies...

 

But the past is past. It is done, and can never be replaced. No matter how much I want to change it, it'll never change. It's this permanent block in your head that you desperately want to relocate, either throw away or move it somewhere else.

 

But what pains me so is the fact that I must move on. Moving on hurts badly, but I must if I want to survive. I don't know how long can I do this 'moving on' stuff, just as long as I could let myself free... And I hope that one day someone would save me from this cruel paradise of anguish and pain they call life.

Till then, I shall write about what I feel every passing day, to the end of my strength, I shall write them here... It'll all be my deathwish, the last thing I could wish for... was to be known...

...not only by the ones around me... but also him...