Oct 31, 2015
I’ve always wanted to document my life in a journal. There is something awfully romantic about keeping an account of your day to day life. I just read a book, Fairyland by Alysia Abbott, about a woman who grew up with a single gay father in the ‘80s. She reconstructed both her and her father’s life through his journals and their letters to each other. I find it so beautiful.
Is it because I want to leave behind some sort of proof of my existence? Will I even have anyone to read my writings when I’m gone? I don’t even want to have kids eventually, at this point of my life. Maybe my life isn’t even that interesting to keep up a diary. But I do love reading my old blog posts, no matter how cringe they are.
When I was younger, I’d keep physical accounts of my life. I’m still bitter over the fact that my mother takes it upon herself to read my journals now. I love the physical act of writing and the tangibility of writing makes is seem so much more precious. But then I found out my mother has been snooping. One day she mentioned a topic that I never told her about, but something that I had wrote. I was so extremely angry but I didn’t say anything. It’s not like I just leave my journals out in the open. I take lengths to hide them but my mother still manages to find them. Maybe I’m just not as clever as I think I am.
I took up writing in Elian script to counteract this. However, decoding my entries took way too long. I recently found an easier script to read, Liron. But I am so resentful (I looked up synonyms for bitter, haha) that I have to go through these measures.
I want to take up writing frequent blog posts, at the price of making these posts private. But what if my blog gets hacked? There’s a little more risk involved than having my mother read my journals. I’m really conflicted.