into_the_wild

:: To Thine Own Self Be True ::

I bought Mitch Albom's books at a bookshop a couple of days ago.
I waited for the cashier to giftwrap the books.
My eyes caught sight a stack of diaries, piled near the entrance.
The diary was nicely plain and simple without embellishments.
I picked one up and flipped it open.
It was in the day-to-a-page format.
I was tempted to get it.
I was tempted to start diarying again.
I remember my diarying in my secondary school days.
I used to use management diaries provided by mother's insurance agents.
I realised that one writes more when one's depressed.
For happy days and happiness need no outlet.
The habit persisted through varsity.
Only to end with the start of livejournal.
It was almost exactly this time four years ago.
A thousand and sixty two entries later, I wonder.
I wonder what I could have journalled that I did not.

Let me digress.
When I first started journalling, I mentioned a book by John Powell.
It is titled "Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am?".
So why am I afraid to tell you who I am?
For if I told you who I am, would you still accept me for what I represent?
I am glad that I have faced my inner monsters and accept myself.
I do not fear.
Yet I feel that my life should never be an open book.
Inviting vandalisms from the casual passer-bys.
And of course, repercussions from Big Bro.
How whole is a virtual being, which may be moulded to what one desires?
How meaningful is it to write to please the masses for popularity.
And lose oneself in the process?

May as well just post a delectable picture; easier.

So why the cryptic writings, one may ask?
Perhaps I think in the form of images.
The power of the message lies in the image, methinks.
Then again, maybe I am just inarticulate.
Maybe I prefer to write for those who bother to decipher.
If it means nothing to you, it is meant to be.
If it means something to you, it is meant to be.
Nevertheless, my treasured moments are always penned down in the open
And they have the power to trigger
A rush of emotions to my heart.

So will I diary again?
I am not sure.
I may not recount each day's activities in great detail.
Then I will leave a broken twig for each significant moment.
For me to trace my journey back in time.

I will write still, for an audience, definitely,
But more importantly, I will write
For myself,
Or I may never walk this way again.