How odd. I was just looking back at the first few entries I wrote when I began
this diary, at the beginning of March. That's only eight months ago, but it feels
like reading someone else's writing. In fact, it feels more like reading someone
else's work than does going over the things I wrote when I was about 14. That's
probably because I didn't keep any sort of regular journal then, so when I did
write something down, it was usually due to overwhelming emotions that had to be
purged by means of ink on paper. Fourteen is more than half a lifetime ago, but I
still remember those aches. They were nothing special or profound, just the usual
yearnings of an adolescent with almost no friends who really understood anything.
Or maybe they were profound because they are so commonly bound to that age. I
don't know.
The most disquieting thing about reading the things I
wrote back in March is that it's not only like reading another writer's work. It's
like reading a better writer's work. Maybe because, living in a hotel room, I had
fewer distractions, or maybe because I hadn't yet run out of things I really
wanted to say. Maybe also because my gym time was less focused and so I didn't
dwell on it the way I do now. Possibly, I just think better in colder
temperatures, in which case our current weather ought to be a stimulus. I still
have things to say sometimes, and anyway I like writing here, so I'm not going to
let a little thing like declining quality stop me. I love the idea of having a
record of my daily life, and I also love being able to write out my opinions,
sorting out in my own mind and expressing them in public, without anyone having to
be forced to hear them due to proximity or politeness. Here, you can read if you
want or go away if you want, and either way no offense can be taken.
I will be curious, though, to reread this eight months from now and
see how I feel about it. What's the opposite of a chambered nautilus?