I buy diaries. Journals. Empty books. I buy paper with lines. If you have ever been, or are someone who does this, I’m with you. Stood in front of the stationery aisles of countless newsagents and smelt the…smelt the…smelt the ‘illusion of solidity’.
Australian writer, bitter-brained and brilliant, Patrick White coined this too true phrase.
For surely, if I write words, from the unbridled and elusive parts of my self, I will, in essence, ‘be’. Like some quantification, some permission given, that one’s stamp is authentic. Precious. And, somewhat like Schrödinger’s cat*, both alive and dead at once, the moment one shows one has written, one proves that one need not have written for an audience in the first place. That one is, in fact, the writing. As I always was. As we are.
And so here is my journal. Again. Again, again. Again, again, again. And that I have actually realised that, much again like quantum irony, in writing for an audience, I am released to write for myself.
So, read or not. I am here to leave a mark, if only for myself. My story.
* This is my cat; his name is Schrödinger.