Inevitably and without regret, my diary remains empty. Recent calendar days without the record of thoughts which run through my head on an hourly basis. Just today I could have let rip across a writing pad without stopping. It is not enough to suggest a long walk through an empty field. Complete shut-down for an open mind, that is my only solution. Prescription, even. Mend the broken woes.
This is not my voice. The diaries may not have humour woven through them but something about the handwritten word remains authentic, honest. Something true in the scribble. I cannot be open, nor honest, not entirely, on the Internet. Words without boundaries and yet there remains constraint. Which is why the two, three, shall I say “myriad” of reasons why my head hangs heavy cannot be even suggested here. Belt and braces. It’s all about the “just in case”.
Shameful, though, how I treat the diary. Its emptiness reflects on my attitudes, reflects how I have spent the year. No words shout very loudly in the ear of the man who listens to the past without heeding lessons for the future.