To write a diary every day is like returning to one’s own vomit.

i had an interesting experience this week. as you may remember my parents are clearing out their attic at the moment and they just brought through a tonne of old books, school certificates and so on for me to go through. well, lo and behold one bag contained all of my old diaries spanning from about age 12 to 19/20 ish. first crushes, bad teenage poetry, identity crisises, a lot of what richard curtis refers to as ‘the total agony of being in love’

in the past when clearing out our flat i have allways found re-reading old letters and so on a singularly solopsistic and bittersweet pleasure so when i sat down to go through them all i expected to find it an emotional experience. melancholic, nostalgic, hideously embarassing at the very, very least.

in fact i found it, to my shock, completely boring. i skimmed through the whole load in about 15 minutes and binned the lot. apparantly porn gets less ‘effective’ with re-use – maybe memories are the same?

i have the horrible feeling this means i’ve finally grown up….


0 thoughts on “To write a diary every day is like returning to one’s own vomit.

  1. I think over and above boredom, what I feel look over old diaries and the like is an absolutely crushing sense of self despisal. Could I really have been the pretentious, self deluded twat that wrote these words? Was I actually that bothered about something so trivial, inconsequential and meaningless?

    fraid so…

    But then, if I can recognise that and then was to write something now…(bugger, I’m still a pretentious wank)

  2. I still have journals from a few years back that I keep in a big box o’crap somewhere in the recesses of our storage cupboard in the hall. Anything older was destroyed in the Great Escape from living ‘at home’ to living anywhere-else-thank-fuck when I was 18, which is most definitely for the best…the thought of my own teenage diaries makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I can’t even look at the journals I have kept though. They aren’t diaries in that I wrote about what I was doing or kept any sort of record about the events of my life (which I maybe should’ve done, seeing as it turns out I was too wasted for a few years there to remember anything of importance), just these pointless pages of brain spew and meaningless doodles which didn’t even seem significant at the time.

    I don’t know the person who wrote those journals. I don’t think I ever knew that person. I’m glad she’s not around any more though.

  3. so basically, we are, at any given point, dull twats?

    i never kept a diary or a journal as such, but i would write lenghty essay type things, reflecting on either one subject or, utter philosophical bollocks during a transitional period in my life.
    i’ve read some since, some not bad and retained, some torn up instantly.
    most of it reads in the form of lengthy questions, but again i think it was my own therapy during some uncertainties and all that.

    nowadays i wouldn’t dream of putting any ‘real’ thoughts or opinions down in black and white, far too contrary these days, shifting my weight from one leg to the other is somthing i do on the hour. if i were to journal that now, i’d only open the door for self loathing in the future, its better to look back and think, “god…i’ve always been ace”
    well….works for me anyway…everybody else thinks i am a dick.

  4. it’s funny, my teenage diaries were – like tanya’s – “pointless pages of brain spew” but now i don’t write a diary at all. i’m still completely self indulgent (this blog being case in point) i’m just considerably less interested in drama and angst!

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