November 9, 2014 by Cláudia
I was asked to write “something personal”. I freaked out. I don’t know how to do that because I cannot stand to do something that’s “cliché”. I won’t write about my cat or about my grandmother because I know I will never really be able to express how they are important to me. So this is what I did.
I have always struggled with autobiographical texts. One of my most important quest is exactly the question of identity, defining myself. The more I search for it, the more I realize a clear and precise definition of one’s self is out of my reach. This is why I could not think of anything else to write about except for the writing itself. My writings symbolize my journey, my progress and there is no better example of this than my diary.
I am aware that no one has a diary anymore. It is utterly outdated. But I do have a diary. I’ve had diaries since I was eleven and I think I will always have them. Since I was young I felt an unexplicable need to register things, to verbalize what is inside my head. Although there are always blank pages from when I get tired of it, I can’t really not write for a long time. It helps me keep track of things. Remembering my path. Keeping my sanity. Those blank pages feel like a hole in my past. What happened those days? Probably nothing majorly important but I will never know.
I have most of my life registered (and not all of it for that would be impossible), and sometimes I go back and read it, but not often. I don’t have a diary to read it later, I have a diary merely to write it. To write about how I felt alone in 5th grade, how I didn’t fit in. About daily life things like a great food I ate, or nice clothes I bought. About more important things like my first love and my first heartbreak. Making and losing friends. Arguments with my mother. New pets. Grades and homework. And eventually, questions. Questions about the injustice of the world. Questions about fate and free will. Questions about identity. And behind those all, the primordial question: “what is the meaning of life?”.
I am perfectly conscious that most of my diaries will never be read, not even by me. But I keep them. They are a proof that I existed, that I did things, that I thought, that I suffered, that I felt good and bad and that I questioned. That I never resigned, that I never accepted things for what they are supposed to be. That I always wondered and wanted to know more.
So it is, in a way, something that it very meaninful to me. Or rather, it includes everything very meaningful to me in it. That’s why I still write in it and intend to always do. As long as I am a thinking one, I will write.