I have tried this time and again, and it’s never really panned out for me. I used to keep a regular journal as a child. But as I grew older, I discontinued the practice. I always assumed it was because I had finally made friends, and had real people to share my stories with. As fate should have it, the friends I spent years trying to keep would end up leaving, and I’d be left even more alone than I ever was as a child. You’d figure, as lonely as I am now, I’d surely keep one again.
No. That isn’t the case. It wasn’t because of loneliness that I kept a journal. It was because I had a life worth sharing. I had hopes, dreams, and ideas. There was music in my soul that I wanted to put on paper. Now, I am an empty shell, tired and hollow, completely void of any kind of story to share. I spend my days waiting for my life to become something else, or to end. I hate myself. My existence is painful. It is suffering. It is hardship. This depression is as deep as any cavern, as unyielding as any mountain, and as cold and dark as the bottom most reaches of any ocean. My heart echoes as the wind blows right through me, the mournful sound is less of a wail and more like the listless whistle of an empty bottle.
I have had so many names in my lifetime. I don’t know what to call myself anymore. Each new me that I fastened for myself was a clay doll that crumbled at the first sign of rain. I didn’t like myself, so I built versions of me that were braver, kinder, smarter, and more likable. It wasn’t that I lied, I made it a policy to never lie. Who I was, was surely, genuinely me, but a me that was not sustainable. I could only be so brave, so kind, so smart, and so likable. I was a canvas, blank and ready for paint. I painted myself red, but it ran. So I tried blue. That ran, too. I tried to be brilliantly yellow, and even that would bleed right out. And here I am, again, blank. There is no color left in my life.
Call me what you will from here on. I don’t know who I am, or who I’m going to be. Maybe, we will find out together. But for now, any name will do. I have decided to give another attempt at keeping a journal, in the tried and true electronic format. Pen and paper fail me, because they are simply too slow. I can type much faster than I can write, and I can keep up with myself. And, there’s something just so satisfying about the clitter-clatter of keys beneath fingertips. It’s soothing. My life slips by, each moment unwitnessed, and I feel like I’m a ghost in this world. With no one to see me, no one to hear me, it may as well be that I am a phantom. The thought of this is just too unbearable, so I will try to write down my life, here, so that my existence will have left some trace. This is a desperate attempt to prove to myself that I am real.
I am real. And I am alive. For you who are witnessing me now, please never forget my story.