FOREWORD TO THE UNWRITTEN DIARY
FOREWORD TO THE UNWRITTEN DIARY
I don�t know why I wrote this.
Some people keep a diary. I always felt that if you kept a diary it was some bizarre attempt at place-marking egoism. Some attempt to keep a mark or leave a scratch on the world. Leaving footsteps in the sand that get washed away with time and experience. I�ve heard of millions of people who write diaries and stories and burn them, throw them away, destroy them in humilated embarassment after the fact. The feelings roaring naked off the page, burning the pride of the writer, that soon become revealed - with the all important hindsight - as trivial, or worse still, pathetic. But aren�t all of us pathetic? At some point in our lives, as all pretence is stripped away, we become smaller than we think we are, we become who we really are. Pleading at the cashpoint or throwing alcohol at strangers for acceptance.
Here is my record. A literary equivalent of pissing up trees to mark my spot. This is me. This is what I do. This is who I am.
But realistically I feared what might happen if what I wrote in here became public. If people found out what I really thought of them - and then I realised. When I am dead, this, is all that will remain. I might as well be honest here, to myself. Otherwise, my entire life is little more than a shallow lie.
Who ever wants to read a diary? Not unless you know me do you want to do that. Or do you? Would you read this if I left it open, unlocked on my bed? Or if I left it deep in my drawer? How far would you go?
I fictionalised my life. I turned it into this you hold in your hands.
� copyright Mark Reed, 1991-2002 except where indicated