Greetings, dear reader. I want to let you know that I have collected many notebooks throughout my life of eighteen years. Many writing pads, numerous diaries, spiral notebooks with partitions of pink and yellow plastic, and uncountable registers. But of course registers are different. Or rather, registers are the only ones which are normal, ordinary…uneventful? For once, humane? Registers are everyone’s day to day. Notes and school’s rough work, the dreaded math sums are all contained in that set of pages lined with black and pink double margins with an insignificant box to enter the date and day. I won’t say that I strive for perfection in a register. I am okay with some cuttings here and there, and don’t mind the shabby doodles, for what is a register without doodles, without words interrupted by a triangle here or a spiral there?
But my diaries, those fancy notebooks, they are different. My diaries are all empty, my classy notebooks waiting for some equally elegant words. These diaries with thick pages are sure to hold the ink dutifully. Yet my hands shake, my resolve wavers. I do not want to make mistakes; I do not want to strike off words I wrote with conviction just a second or two ago. I am afraid I can never be as perfect as that diary, and I do not want to taint the magnificence of it through my human inadequacies. I can never fill these diaries with as much force and surety as in a register.
So I wait. I wait to become more mature, mature enough to write and be satisfied, to write something befitting of a place in a diary as perfect as that which sits in my drawer right now, nonchalant.
And even if I do sit down to write something, what would it be? Surely I can’t keep on changing subjects; I should try to maintain a steady theme throughout. What should be the subject? I do not want to write something that I see myself outgrow. I do not want to laugh at it or worse, even cringe at what I write when I grow up and read it in sweet moments of leisure. What if in my attempts at being splendid, I become overly pretentious? That would be a waste of a diary!
So I let it sit. I let all my diaries sit. The one which I got from a friend on my fifteenth birthday, the one my grandfather let me take with me from his house, and all the others which remind me of people I procured them from. I run my hand across the glossy cardboard cover and open it, I turn some of those flawless pages, always to keep it back in the drawer, yet again.
Why do diaries lure me so? Why are they so enticing, so bewitching? I do not seem to understand the careless charm they exude, or whether they are aware of it. Or do I even want to understand? Of course not, dear reader. I would rather keep the air of mystery about it alive. What if diaries are indeed ordinary? That would unsettle me a bit. So I let all my diaries be, while I confess sweet nothings to the register.