Diaries are peculiar, aren’t they? They provide us with a way of linking our emotions, our thoughts, our feelings to words. To transcribe ourselves in ink and commit to paper what we do not want to tell another person. Peculiar objects, infused with secrets, hopes, dreams, pain, all bound within the confines of a paper cover.
This isn’t a diary. This is a commentary. This is how I see the world, how the people I meet make me laugh. How the words in my head keep spinning and spinning till I can’t focus any more and I have to write them down.
Everyone has a story.
Everything has a tale.
I’m not saying I should be the one to record them, but… In our lives, we are the creators of our own reality, our brains perceive the world, we attach a word to a colour in our visual system, in order to make sense of what we perceive. And we try to translate the beauty of the world in any way we can. Some people draw, some play music, some write, some talk. We all create a world around us. Even if that world is infused with pain, and suffering, its still our world, and we still find the beauty in our own way.
Words, colours, notes, people; they form the world and the world forms us. So, I write what I see, I draw what my hands tell me to, I create dresses and make friends.
I am me, that is all I want to be, and all I ever will be.
So, this is me, recording the world how I see it. Every joke, every reference, every book, every poem, every film, every person, every song, every tear…
Well, maybe not quite every!