Perhaps I am at the disadvantage of having not been born with an interesting voice or a gay man, but my diaries, if ever read aloud, would not nearly be as interesting at those of David Sedaris. Perhaps that’s an unfair burden to put on myself, for I also do little and go nowhere nearly as interesting as the best-selling author, but still… I do feel at times I should at least try.
For example, recently on my way to his show (though I wasn’t quite thinking in those terms as I’m now writing from the future. And future me says, also don’t forget to bring your rain boots home from work), I thought to myself: ‘There must be something interesting about this trip to share… Like the rows of bare trees creating a stenciled sky. Or the gray horizon gently cradled between clouds and sea. And how the traffic was so bearable, and even lovely, with a catchy tune and an empty bladder.’
And yet, my diary entries continue with the sad tired bit about my frustrations and my worries and my general self-absorption. How I must resolve to change. And how I lament when I fail. And perhaps, most insidiously, when I tell myself it’s because I’m not good enough.
But I suppose, in the immortal words of Bridget Jones, “everyone knows that diaries are just full of crap.”
And so while my diary to date remains filled with inane complaints and juvenile drama, I can also still long to write wryly of funny encounters and ironic situations. I can write of the joys of accomplishment small and large, seen and unseen.
Most of all I can write of the quiet moments in human connection, when I forget about me and remember to love the person in front of me. Even if it’s only with a small secret hope that they love me back, just as I am.