Since I was seven years old, I’ve kept a diary.
In the very beginning I told all my secrets to a forest green, padded hardcover book with big, fluffy hearts on it, though nothing profound was ever written in its pages. With big, loopy letters, I wrote to my diary as if it were a human being, asking how its day was going, telling it I would talk to it soon. It was silly & innocent. It was my release.
As I grew older, my diaries morphed into more than just consolation; they became a very specific way for me to tap into the essence of my being. I wrote about the thoughts swirling inside of my head, which revealed the general makeup of all my ideas, insecurities, & emotions. I wrote about my hopes & dreams, which in turn divulged the way I saw the world around me, with eyes wide open in wonder. I wrote about my crushes & love affairs, which told of my desire to be wanted, accepted, cherished.
Writing in a diary was really the only way for me to keep tabs on my intuitions. It was my personal verification of being human, of being mortal.
And then the boom of internet blogging took precedence over my writing practice, & my respective paper diary began collecting dust on my nightstand. I made the mistake of thinking my personal blog, Apricot Tea, seemingly replaced my private journal. It did not. It was a great release in its own unique way, of course, but a public blog could never substitute the freeness that a secret, tangible diary provokes.
Being a diarist may seem a bit antiquated for some, but for me it keeps me blissfully honed in on the nature of my existence.
Perhaps it can do the same for you.