Diary Cultivatin'

I am flirting with keeping a diary henceforth, and, that I write this is clear indicator of the heady signs of that romance already afoot. I really do not know why this is necessary. Are memories not opened like a page? Or, I do not trust my own memory. That is a weighty conclusion and I am horrified to push it any further. At least not right now.

What should I write? Who should read it? Who could read it? Sigh.

It is a tough love thing this diary business. All cloak and daggers too. Still, I shall try. This is my written conscience, mine and mine only, to be seen by any of my choosing or unseen by all; my choice. Let the world be forewarned and pry not, for ignorance grants none immunity from this law.

But deeper still, why write a diary at all? catharsis? The one you could not attain in the place that mattered the most- your mind? Naturally, the question of what to write is at once settled once you begin, the decision already been made, to write. You would write about what drove you to write- even if subconsciously, wouldn’t you? So, what drives you now man? Why would you put your days into record, into note? What drives?

You seek to put a perspective to things, a spatial frame of reference from which you survey your galaxy of chaos. You must recount your ABCs or no Twain.

                               Swim down Chaos’ Mississippi.....

And is that it? Merely? You need directions to Ohio? Not entirely. You need to see a mirror, a special type of mirror; a word woven reflector of you and yours, days and all.

Ah! So we compare the scribe and his writ, the real and the reflected. We measure, yet, to what end? To be consoled by the average result or be utterly damned by it and maybe, just maybe, be compelled to excel the average? Hah! Emancipation!

You would meet yourself- your gaoler or liberator- would you not? Now look, it is no days’ job. You would first seek yourself, writing out your truer reflection until there you are; noble or beast. The actual you. You. Real. Alive. True. You.

Oh, you write for you then...?

How nice, you narcissist little fuck! So then you write and voila! There you are all grand savage in your bestial glory. What do you do then? Most probable would be you; the beast, ripping up the diary to live unencumbered, a Jackal of Chaos’ wild. What then? Would you embrace that you? Or, excel that average, a greater beast perhaps?

                        Are you afraid of what you could find?

This is a diary, or the makings of one at the very least, so, what would you record? What choice parts to write or preserve? Questions, questions, questions again.

I hear my name, its Orgathun! I awake from my reverie, slowly. I open my door but he is out the gate by the time I am done...