privacy freak

for most of my life i been a privacy freak. when i was still in single digits i was gifted a gorgeous [to my then self] diary with cover image of pointe shoes+roses+manuscript and latch on the side that i, voracious reader and wannabe-writer, was so excited to write in. i lovingly, sometimes breathlessly, delightedly used it until learning it was read by somebody else. i ripped out and tore up every single page and never used a diary or journal again. in university when occasionally required to journal for a course i'd sit down the night before it was due and make up the whole thing based on what i learned in class. A+ every time.

my everliving distrust of diaries/journals was coupled with the knowledge that my memory was excellent and youth's failure to realise that wouldn't last as long as i expected.

i already losing hold of memories i thought impossible to fade. because my memory always been so good i acutely aware of the still-small [for now] slippage and it terrifies me, both as writer+person. i cry everytime something make me realise a little more slip/ping away. and i know is nothing in the face of how much most cyah remember but i was counting on having that memory, both as writer+person, that capability to continue to parse my amazing life and the glorious population i privileged to be connected to.

now i watch back at my unjournalled decades and vex vex with meself for letting an invasive adult rob me of a practice i needed, access to my personal library. steups.

walk good.