In my first year of college, I remember being so miserable that I bunked classes and spent a whole week in bed, re-watching episodes of Scrubs. I was terribly lonely, had no friends, no one to talk to and had developed a distaste for physical activity. At the end of the week, at three in the morning, I cupped my face and cried. It’s a pathetic memory and I would never use it if I were writing a novel—too melodramatic, I think—but it was something I couldn’t help. I had relatives there, an aunt and uncle, a senior from secondary school who was ridiculously kind to me and people in college who had been generally helpful but no one could help me climb out of bed. I sank into the coils of my mattress and stayed there. I felt sick and filled with loathing for myself but its weight only dragged me in deeper.
Maybe I should write a diary. I’ve always hated the idea of one but now it seems like I can do something with the form that aligns it more with how my memories structure themselves within the contexts they occupy. In a way, they are limited by the fact that most of them are irrelevant except as a means of the continual generation and regeneration of the illusion my identity but then again, for the same reason, they are also freed of the conventions of fact-based entries and reflections that are so utterly boring that it would probably be no more taxing to read them in binary code. I can’t write if I can’t enjoy discovering what my writing reveals to me.