The truth is that I could die tomorrow and my legacy would be a pile of illegible notebooks. I often wonder if someone would take them and do something useful with them.
They don’t look particularly important.
But they are. They’re important to me, at least. Because they are me.
They mean everything in the world to me at the moment I’m writing in them. They stop me behaving inappropriately. The notes contain my flashes of anger, they hold all of the words I’m not allowed to say when my emotions are clouding my judgement. When I know I’m overreacting or expressing the incorrect emotion, it can be safely contained inside the pages of the book and therefore no harm can come to anyone else.
For years I have blamed the words for hurting me. Their words, my words, your words… but it was all a lie. Wasn’t it? I am the only one causing pain. When I’m wishing harm upon myself or wondering what will happen should I not wake up tomorrow or dragging blood from my arms or legs, and then when I’m punishing myself for all of that hurt that I’m directing towards myself… it’s so easy to pretend it isn’t me. But it is. Somehow. I just don’t quite connect with it.
The notebooks contain all my thoughts. The real and the not so real. The stories and the memories. Moments that happened and moments that could never happen.
But they’re untidy, they’re not in order. They just look like scribbled words on a page.
They are scribbled words on a page and they aren’t even based on a true story.
I’ve lost track of what is real and what isn’t.
When the camera flips the photographs that you take of yourself and you no longer recognise your face, you suddenly see yourself the way that the world sees you. Yet you will only ever truly recognise the face you see in the mirror. You’re used to it, even though it’s not quite true.
Which one would you prefer to be? The flipped version of yourself, the face that you’re used to?
Or would you prefer to be who you really are?
Entries don’t have to contain thousands of words to say something meaningful.
I’m recording a life that isn’t mine.
Or am I?
I just don’t know who I really am.