When I was 18 I kept a diary for a year. It was small and red. I wrote in it most days. I remember in the beginning my entries were clunky and affected but after a while any contrivance gave way and that little red book really did become a true confessional. The place where my outwardly self-conscious beige self would purge all the colour and all the feeling that was bubbling beneath my skin.
Thinking about it now, 20 years later, is strange. Actually my heart aches a little because even though I lost the diary in a move only months after the year was out there were entries of sadness and of searching in there I can recall now fresh and raw as when I wrote them.