I ended up spending over an hour reading the diary. Flicking through it's thick pages, watching as my handwriting changed from gaudy bubble-writing to failed cursive. I never did like my writing.
I had bought the diary when I was 15 while staying with family in West Cork. Mum had taken my sister to get ice cream while I had wandered into one of the 'artsy' stores opened around the small town to attract the tourists. Walking into the orange-scented store, I knew almost instantly that everything here would be over-priced, from the intricately framed mirrors to the bejewelled pens. As pretty as it all was, it was completely out of my measly price range. As I was walking out to meet my mother, who was now standing impatiently outside with my 7 year-old sister, who was busy stuffing her face with mint chocolate ice-cream, I spotted a 'bargain bin' tucked under a shelf of painted glass elephants. Fishing through it's contents hurriedly, I found a small stack of journals, each one covered prettily with different designs, each one unique and empty. Waiting to be filled with experiences and memories. I had never owned a journal before, but after two days without internet looming before me, I was willing to start writing in one to pass the time I would have otherwise spent with my family, a fate worse than death for any moody teenager. It didn't take long to find the journal I wanted. It wasn't brightly colored, like most of the others, it's design even seemed sloppy compared to the other covers. But straight away, I knew this was the one I wanted. A beige cover with a red spine, a sloppily drawn Classic New York taxi was the main focus of the front with Monday 25th December 1939 scribbled above it. On the back is a stamp with the only legible word being 'Government'. Looking at it now, I still can't believe I chose it, especially seeing as the college course I'm hoping to study next year is Government and my dream is to somehow bag a job in New York. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I prefer to think that I'm awesome enough to see the future, I just don't know it yet~
The contents of the journal made me laugh at times. Partly as I reminisced over funny memories, but mostly out of embarrassment as I read rants about topics I couldn't care less about now.
I've written a pretty long post here, and to avoid the risk of boring you, I'm going to only say this: Keeping a journal/diary teaches you that what worries you today, really will be something you'll laugh about tomorrow. It teaches you to not sweat the small stuff, to take each day as it comes and to live and let live... yada yada, *insert endless clichés here* Reading an old diary teaches you to consider your current situation and think, 'Will I even care about this in a year? Will I be proud about how I reacted to this? Am I paying enough attention to what's happening right now?'
Also, starting off with the phrase 'Dear Diary' is really lame.
-Sonj.
