The Thoughts of a Diary
It’s a strange business being a diary. Sometimes loved, sometimes feared, sometimes hated; fondled and cuddled or left on a dusty shelf – or worse in a dark drawer – sometimes for years. I don’t know if I am a confident or a therapist, a friend or a doctor.
And then there is the business of being written in. I hate Biros almost as much as pencils. Either blunt and hard pressed or hard sharp things with all that rubbing out. It takes the surface off my paper. At least a Biro rolls over the page, but they do tend to press so hard, crushing my paper. It hurts.
It is the fountain pen I love best, flowing smoothly over the page just kissing the paper, leaving its trail of symbols of memory. The ink gently all but soaks into the paper making it feel good as it establishes a permanent mark, what paper was made for.
Trouble is my busiest time is when they are down and alone. Write, write, write till it becomes a manic scribble till they have poured out all their pain. I am a good listener, but hopeless with advice, I become page tied. Then as life improves I notice new names and the details get more interesting. Will they, wont they, oops they did. Then silence, and I’m left on the shelf for ages. It’s so frustrating.
Sometimes I go on holiday and get fed up with all that detail about planes and trains and cars and buildings and restaurants. I hate hot humid places, it plays havoc with my binding, making it come unstuck, and you would be amazed at what you can pick up in foreign places that can ruin your leather for life. But the rucksack is worst. The suitcase ok, but the rucksack really does for your corners.
I thought I was done for the other day. I had been lying on my back for months. I blame it on the lack of book end. I was stood upright and the end of a row of quite nice books for paperbacks, when I slowly and then suddenly slipped down onto my back, and there I stayed. They were off with me again. Anyway I think it must have been that that did for my lock. I take security seriously and there is a fine brass hasp holding my pages together. It keeps them nice and flat too even if it is humid. They took me down off the shelf. Wanted to make a new start or some such, but they couldn’t open the hasp. I knew it hadn’t been locked, but off they went in search of the key and came back with an array of knives and sharp pointed instruments. Scared the S**t out of me. Then someone else was there, rougher hands and hard nails, which were forced under the hasp and, flip, it was opened.
The relief. Not only was I able to exercise my spine ad flip my pages, but my lock was still intact. That was until the other one wanted to read me. My, the fuss. You can’t imagine the pain of being torn, and there were hands everywhere, pulling this way and that. I remember the noise too, the shouting and the little drops of water making the ink blur a little.
Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. I gave in and split. The tear was down my spine, ripping the cotton strand and cracking the glue. Oh the exquisite pain. I thought I was dead.
So that is how I found myself in this skip. The pain has eventually subsided now. No wait a new hand now. What is this a Biro? Feels odd. No it is Gel pen. Urgh!
That is not a thought or a wish. Corn Flakes? It’s a shopping list. The ignominy – giving up my last pages to travel round a supermarket under a rusty clip. Oh that I had died at the hands of diarist.