I already spent half an hour thinking about what to write today. Even now I'm still not sure if I should write this or that. Is it too personal? Is the topic too shallow? Will it be of any interest to anyone? What's the significance? Only to realize that hey this blog's all about what I'm thinking. It's not supposed to please anyone in particular. So I'll just write about the recent and not so recent event that made my heart uneasy.
Around the latter part of last year, I decided to keep a diary again. I wanted to record my life, to put down into writing not only what I saw or did but also what I did not see and do. I felt relieved that I could once again let my feelings out without hurting anyone's feelings or making anything complicated. I wrote about the deepest and most personal thoughts of mine. I cherished that journal, until now. I used to write on it everyday, without fail. Even though nothing eventful happened, I would bring out a pen and write a sentence or two before sleeping or right after I wake up. I even tried to recall my dreams and wrote them down.
It was very comforting to have a diary and not have anyone read it. Initially, I wanted to imitate Charlie from Perks of being a Wallflower and anonymously send someone letters about myself. However, I decided against it because it would just be a bother - to me and whoever I'll send it to - and I was afraid of getting caught. So I kept a journal instead, safely tucked in between my books just like any other notebook.
But around December I felt something weird. My sister and dad were talking about something that I'm sure they couldn't have come up with by themselves. It was about a dream of mine which I dismissed as impractical, unfeasible, and too ambitious. Days passed and I finally confirmed that my elder sister read my diary. It looked so common a notebook that she thought it was just for jotting down notes. These past few days I once again felt something weird. This time, with my mother. I just recently went back to writing on my planner and diary again after a month. True enough, she read both my planner and diary when I was asleep, under the excuse of "It was just lying there on your pillow." I admit that I was careless. I was trying to make it seem normal for them to not put any attention to it. In the end, they read it.
Although it was partly my fault, I still feel bad and hurt because they kept on reading. When they realized that it was a diary, they shouldn't have read more. Looking at the cover which says planner, one shouldn't have opened it. Looking into my deepest thoughts and plans, they shouldn't have teased or scolded me. They should've just acted like they read nothing. Unlike this blog, I didn't intend to have anyone know what I wrote in my diary or planner. On one hand, I wanted them not to make it obvious they read my journal. By doing that, I could have continued with my routine. I could have let my thoughts out still and let my mind at peace. On the other hand though, living like nothing happened would have been pitiful.
Something happened. And I can't take it back. It's unsettling. But I have to live with it.
