Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Writing

My diary used to live safely under my bed. In my naivety I feared that someone might seek to read my thoughts and that somehow this dark place might keep my feelings secret. I flattered myself with the notion that my words might be of interest to someone else and at that same time feared that somehow this could be used against me. Writing was the cure to my constant state of worry and yet at the same time it fuelled it, leaving me paranoid that my private thoughts might be abused.


I have always had difficulty writing in front of people and even now, my diary remains completely private; my written mind and the rawness of those words are for me and me alone. Only two people have ever known any of the thoughts that it contains, and only one has ever been trusted to hold my words in their hands.


And yet I find myself writing here. Having spent so long hiding my thoughts away from the world, I have reached a point where my need to write surpasses my need for privacy. Some thoughts remain my own and demand the secrecy of my diary and yet some find themselves spilling out during the day. These words I am happy to share.

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