I used to know a friend who kept a diary. We met when I was a freshman in high school, and then became best friends later on. I remember her telling me that she would like to share the various entries of her life to her daughter someday. I thought at the time how nice it would be to impart a piece of the felicity and melancholy of my teenage years to my future children. To give them a glimpse of the human frailty, as well as the joys of the emergence of adulthood.
I love to write. I feel as if I can express myself eloquently through words on paper. If I ever try to verbalize the ideas going through my mind, they often come out as…..bland. The concept that I am hoping to evoke seems to sound without any conviction. With that, I strongly prefer writing (or typing) in order to convey my ever vigilant thoughts.
The ironic thing is, I have never owned a diary. I tried a few times to buy a journal, then put a few words here and there in the beginning. Afterwards, I lost the drive to record whatever had occurred on that particular day. Maybe I just did not possess the initiative to write down something as banal as my daily routine — how I detested waking up early, so I would not miss my drive to school, how I dreaded doing my oral report, or the organized schedule of my classes the whole day, which had gotten mundane after a while.
During my junior year, I had developed this artistic urge to write poems, rants, and editorials. I suppose the desire had arisen from my dad’s demise. There were emotions of anxieties, fears, and confusions raging in my mind. Multitude of questions that I felt I had no one I was comfortable with to ask. Subsequently, I turned to writing to alleviate the pent-up emotions inside me. I realized that the activity was profoundly cathartic. The piece of paper which held my clandestine feelings had become the reliable confidante. It is a repository of a turbulent mind and an escalating curiosity. In some ways, I was consoled.
Now, I have Abstruse Brunette. Although I admit that I have not been that open in this blog, I still have managed to write about the pensive thoughts that cross my mind, once in a while. There are still circumstances which I feel are too personal to be brought forth on the web, and be perused by random strangers. Maybe one day I will have another blog that will serve as the archive of more private experiences. But right now, Abstruse Brunette has offered me as much comfort as the previous notebook, which had started me writing. The venue may be different, but the level of solace is still the same.
We all have our own way of dealing with what troubles us, with what touches our deepest self. Life can be the road to lunacy if we do not have someone to share our problems with, to assuage our fears, and to laugh with. In whatever shape or form, I think it is imperative to have a trustworthy vessel to prevent us from becoming undone. I believe it is one of the best therapies one can give to oneself. At the end of the day, we all need a reprieve from the chaos surrounding us. A personal time to summon a moment of peace and lucidity.
And guess what? I just had mine. 
Art: Bedroom Scene
