Whatever happened to diaries?

When I was in middle school and such, diaries were the real rage. They would send out fliers for ordering books, but all I ever wanted was a fancy new journal. One with a fuzzy cover and a locking latch on it. Secrets. Giddy, giddy secrets. Mostly about boys. Some of them about life.

I don't really know what happened to my old diaries. I would imagine they are probably still at my Dad's house. Or maybe they are in those little boxes by the bed. Either way, its been a long time since I have looked at them.

Last night however I stumbled upon my most recent diary. The one I started keeping at like age 16 or 17, can't really recall, although I could look at the date of the first entry I suppose. I guess that marks the start of my adult life or something. But still lots of giddy entries, most of them about a certain someone whom I am still with...

Anyway, I wrote in it again last night. First entry in a little over two years. I feel bad for the poor journal, it only had about 20 pages used, and god knows how many left. It's a nice little hardbound journal which I have all intention of filling this summer.

I don't know what ever happened to writing in it on a frequent basis. Used to write in it all the time. I think slowly the diary was replaced by the sketchbook. As an art major I do a lot of sketching, and I mean a LOT. (Although I have not kept up with that so great this summer. Needed a break I guess). I would fill sketchbooks to the brim.

But sketching got lost too. I briefly teetered in the Industrial Design field, and the program here at Western is very rigorous. Sketching turned into an assignment, and all creativity was lost. I was hard pressed to fill the sketchbook because that was part of my grade in classes.

So, here I am, sitting alone one quiet summer, realizing that I have not recorded thoughts and feelings, in any form, in a long time. Facebook statuses offer little more than what they are at face value. It wasn't a good enough outlet for me, I guess.

I need an outlet. So I decided to start writing in the diary again. And interestingly enough, I decided to start blogging again. Being alone is...interesting. I have come to realize that I have never really experienced being absolutely on my own and alone before. When I lived with my dad, he would go out of town and whatever, but my brother would always be there (even though he spent a lot of time out of the house). But here I am, alone in a new house, finding myself with little to do and a lot of time to think and reflect.

I think that's what attracted me to writing again. Reflecting. Recording. Soothing my soul. I became a raging pitfire shortly before my boyfriend left. A constant worry wort about stuff that really didn't matter at all. Whatever. I'm 21, why I worried about so much detail so early in my life is beyond me. I guess I kind of can get that way. But in the lonesome I have decided to stop worrying. I realized that worrying really is a waste of energy, and there are more important things.

Like the only important thing in my relationship is the person with whom I am in the relationship. Go figure, right? Life is too short to be stressing about the details and waiting until everything is perfect to be happy.

That's why I think so many people are broken down these days. I know a few people suffering from things, and they are as closed as a textbook on a sunny summer day. They are broken over their lives not being sound, I guess. But too caught up in it to make their lives sound again.

I think that's kind of what I'm going through on a smaller scale. Who fucking cares if I'm 10 minutes late, but I sure did. Little things like that would bother me. Coming into a fitful rage over things because I did not know how to deal with them as an adult, because I did not have the experience, probably because I am still young and learning.

Now learned, still young.

I think we all need a little diary here and there. How wonderfully liberating it is to clear my thoughts before I go to sleep at night. It's a strange thing, but I really think writing is therapeutic, particularly personal writing, like a diary.

I guess the only difference between now and middle school is that I am no longer doing it to be cool. And I no longer care if anyone reads it or not, because it's me. It's open, honest me. Without the caring what others thing.