Old diaries, eh? I’ve written in various notebooks since I was about seven years old, although never with much consistency. There are huge gaps, and apart from my travel journal, I haven’t properly written for a few years now.
But, oh my, the old ones are hysterical. If there’s ever a reason to write a diary, it’s for the fun you can have re-reading them when you’re older.
Because as much as I like to think I have changed and grown, the entries across the years are eerily similar. It’s surprising how clearly I can tell that I am the same now as I was then, that I approach things and overreact and analyse and make dramatic flourishes of intent, all in exactly the same way.
At least a fifth of all diary entries consist of the written equivalent of a grand gesture. I have had an epiphany (yes, another one) and need to document this change immediately. Months or years later, repeat.
Perhaps this should be upsetting to know that nothing really changes, but it makes me so happy. Seeing proof of who I am, again and again, is comforting. It reminds me that there is a core of myself that, even if I never realise it at the time, will last. You can’t repeatedly fake your personality – this is simply the way I am.
That’s somehow reassuring. To know that whatever happens, there’s always going to be that version of me. And I kinda like her.