The thoughts I omit from my diary amuse me.

I have never written some things in words like how sometimes, I’m stopped in my tracks by the dull, pulsating fear that one day, gravity will let everything go. I think about it when I look into the sky for too long. We are hurtling through space and yet everything seems so still.

My missed-pill panic did not make it to paper either. I didn’t write about how my mind and body had teamed up and neatly produced at least four of the symptoms of early pregnancy. The NHS website is so kind to offer such a list; anyone willing to have an interesting addition to their internet browsing history is welcomed. The most my diary got to hear was the bullet point ‘p- test’ at the bottom of a ‘list of things that have happened.’ This point did not get elaborated on; it only got mentioned as the test was negative. My month and a half of considering the morality of abortion was left out. There was no reference to my thoughts on a potential little life which had so far, done nothing but exist. All of this remained deliberately opaque in my written works.

As did how sometimes, I feel myself jump out of my body when I think about death. Its like my limbs cannot compute how they could come to not exist. My frenzied insides dance into a circling air around my head. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and pretend that the feeling has passed.

Instead, I pen down what I think will be a ‘good read.’ It’s like what Oscar Wilde said— “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” I try to be ‘sensational.’

‘We all played a game of ring of fire before we left. This felt fabulously British and meant I was fabulously drunk.’

‘This morning on my way home from uni, I saw an older man wearing a real-life cape! I can’t even guess what is more thrilling than that.’

Or, when I am able to reach a little deeper;
‘The sun was rising and streaming in pink through his roof lights. I had a real cosmic moment stood on his toilet with my head poking out of his window. The bells were all ringing around me for 7 am. and the buildings were lit orange by the sun against a pale blue sky. Across the rooftops, I could see this other woman with her body out of her window, airing out some fabric. Maybe it was because I was still a bit drunk but it felt like this insane moment of relating across the roofs. It was beautiful. It felt like something out of Great Gatsby.’

How sensational.

It turns out my diary— my ‘inner most feelings on paper’, my ‘mode of true expression’— only gets this calibre of thought. I wonder why this filtering process happens. Is it the abject fear that someone will read it all? Maybe I just can’t be bothered to write everything down. Or is it the fear that I myself would have to re- read my entries at a later date?

A swollen gland forming an ominous lump; my guilt in finding a close friend hard to listen to; the sad admission that sometimes, maybe I do feel lonely; none of these made it. They failed their first audition, didn’t even make it to boot camp.

It appears that sometimes, we want our feelings to be a secret from even ourselves.


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