Paper Scarring

01/01/2000

Dear Dairy Diary,

 Is that how I’m meant to start? It always seems to be how people start a diary entry (apart from the whole accidently writing dairy thing and having to cross it out and ruining the whole thing). Would it be weird if I started it with ‘Hello diary’, or ‘howdy dairy, how you doing?’?

Yeah, it probably would be. So, from now on it will always be ‘Dear Diary’.

Good, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.

Now diary, what can I tell you? Do you need to know who I am before I start telling you about my day to day life? No? Good. I’m relieved.

‘Wait,’ you say? You need to know a bit about me?

Really? But why? You can see how uncomfortable I am with the thought. Can’t you see my face screwing up and my head turning in either direction to make sure no one else is around? There’s this heat burning up my back and slowly crawling up my neck to the top of my head.

‘Yes, but, I need to know,’ you say.

Fine, I relent. It’ll be brief though. Is that OK?

Good.

My name is Harley (yes, like the motorbike), and I’m older than I should be for someone who’s just starting to write a diary. But it's a new century and you were just there with empty white pages, asking; no, begging to be opened up and ink spilled all over you.

Oh jeez, that already sounds weird. I’m not sure how this will work out for us, you know? I’m already having second thoughts. Maybe I’ll start afresh tomorrow.

2/1/2000

Dear Diary,

 Well, I’m back. I thought I’d give this whole diary thing another stab. I’m writing in red ink today, maybe that’s why I thought of stab. It’s like I’m cutting across your skin to make the words seep out; I wonder if it’ll leave a scar?

Huh, maybe that’s all writing is: leaving a scar across a page. But maybe it depends on the words? What’s the definition of scar? Hang on, let me look it up; I’ll be back in a minute.

‘a mark left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn, or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed.’

Maybe not. But once you’ve written something with pen or pencil a mark is always left no matter how hard you try to get rid of it. Right?

 Right, anyway, back to my day. But what if not much happened? Do I just go on and on talking about how I got up, had breakfast, went to work, had lunch, did more work, came home and cooked dinner? Because that’s all kind of boring isn’t it? Am I supposed to pick something small and seemingly insignificant and make it seem like something exciting and meaningful? How does the whole diary thing work? Help me. Please.

4/1/2000

Dear Diary, 

I’m sorry. I know I missed a day. I already feel guilty because it’s not even as if I was particularly busy yesterday; I just honestly couldn’t be arsed. But then today, all day, I felt bad and like I’d failed before I’d even started. So, I vowed to write in you when I got home.

And here I am. Although it still feels pretty stupid. I sit down and stare at your pages, noticing the small flecks in your paper. And I think about what to write. But it’s hard you know? Is there any point to it at all? I suppose I’m just new to it.

But you might know; does it get any easier? Will I find it easier to find things to write about the more I write?

You’re not going to talk to me today then?

Fine. I’m sorry I missed yesterday. But we’re back on track now.

I promise.

5/1/2000

Dear Diary, 

See, I told you we’re back on track. Do you forgive me?

You do? Great, thanks.

I’m glad you’re talking to me again, I thought I’d lost you forever yesterday. Even though we only met a few days ago it feels like I can talk to you. More than anyone else anyway.

But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to tell you everything quite yet. Some things I’m not ready to write down yet. You understand, don’t you?

You don’t? What do mean you don’t?

You’re right; it is a first for you too. You’re almost like a new-born seeking out everything the world has to offer their greedy little eyes; blank pages seeking out a pen and a story.

Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, I’m not sure I’ve got much of a story for you. But I can try.

Some people say there’s a story inside everyone, but I’ not so sure.

Maybe they’re right but I just don’t know how to write it. But some people sing their story, or tell it through paints and pencil, or even their own body. But me? I don’t seem to have anything to tell.

I once tried to

6/1/2000

Dear Diary, 

I’m sorry I left in such a hurry yesterday; the toast was burning. You might have smelt it? I scraped most of the burnt bits off and managed to smother the slight bitter taste under a thick blanket of jam. It tasted OK in the end. And then I got side-tracked reading an article about a panda. Oops.

A panda’s more interesting than finishing a diary entry?

Well… frankly, yes, it is. You’d understand if you read the article. See, a panda basically eats to poop; eating 12–38 kilos of bamboo a day, it can poop as much as 28 kilos per day. Mad isn’t it?

You don’t seem that interested?

OK. What about the fact they have six toes? On each foot! Come on, you can’t say that isn’t interesting.

Oh, right, you can apparently. Fine. What is it you do find interesting then?

Me? You want to know about me? But, why?

7/1/2000

Dear Diary, 

I know I left in a huff yesterday. I just don’t understand why anyone would ever want to know about me. I’m like the most uninteresting person I know. There’s barely any excitement in my life, and I lack drive and ambition. Why would you want to spend your time and pages on me?

You want to help me?

Right. Great. (You can hear I don’t know mean that, yes? Hear the shaking of the head and the slightly amused smile?) And how exactly are you going to do that?

Oh, so you think me writing stuff down will be like a kind of therapy. Do I need therapy? Is that what you’re trying to say? Well, thanks a lot. But you don’t know anything about me, so how could you presume what I need.

I must say, it’s really quite rude actually.

Sorry, I didn’t hear that. Did you say, ‘just think about it?’

Fine, I’ll think about it.

But you’re wrong, you know. I don’t need therapy. And I certainly wouldn’t come to you if I did.

No, I wouldn’t.

14/1/2000

Dear Diary, 

I’ve been thinking over this past week. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you can help me organise my thoughts and figure out what it is I want out of life. Or at least figure out why I seem to hate myself the whole time.

I can’t believe I just admitted that. I can feel my heart; I can hear it in my ears and feel it down my arm. And there’s this prickling over my skull, like a small shock coursing up. Maybe my hair would all be sticking up if I looked in a mirror. It feels like it should be.

So, yes, a lot of the time I hate myself. Oh jeez, I said it again.

No, definitely not; I am not going to say it out loud.

I’m at work and there are people around. That’s why.

My boss is coming over, I need to go. But I’ll be back later.

Me too, I’m looking forward to it.