Girl Half Empty

//What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in//
- Simone de Beauvoir
/June winner of the diary competition/


9. //Everyones filling me up with noise i don’t know what they’re talking about//

17th June

Time flies when you’re having fun and also – apparently – when you’re not. The thing is that time has in fact crawled but it has simply demanded so much of every hour that has passed that I have been unable to drip my flimsy thoughts on to the internet. The thoughts have come and tumbled like that tap in my bathroom that never shuts off but they haven’t found their way here because I haven’t had enough minutes in my days to keep track of them.

I realise that the longer you leave your diary unwritten, the easier it becomes to leave it. Like friends you no longer call or places you visited as a kid. The longer you prevent yourself from returning to them for, the less potency they have to call you back. Ruptures and distances become less significant. Diaries are supposed to write themselves more the more you write into them but I haven’t got the words to test this.

I just know that there is nothing more true than the quote that sits in the blurb box above: I do not write about the important things very often because when important things happen to me they lure me away from our computer. I dedicate words to the uncelebrated and the irrelevant. I write when I have nothing to write about because it is only then that I’m blessed with the opportunity to think of things. 

That will be why this record is neither interesting or informative; why it is largely meaningless drivel or supressed thoughts like washing wrung out by sour hands and mangles.

Things that happen to me:


My friend’s boyfriend of over a year dumps her


Another friend succumbs to anorexia



And I take Ballet exams

Things that I record:



And the sound of other people shouting.

My friend and I have begun to build ourselves jokes by tacking snippets of school conversations to our minds and then reciting them to each other. Words out of context. Words that have failed to adhere to rules. Words that stumble incoherently towards ears that our not ours. And I do find it funny but if I’m honest I know that what we’re laughing at is that we have no jokes or words or conversations of our own.

And this diary’s kind of cathartic but I can’t help thinking that it is worse than what my Dad’s must be. It's as helpless and as hopeless as a feather on the Clyde.

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