Dear diary I'm a writer,
I'll start by saying right now, that names are unimportant. In this case at least. Since I had no idea what to call you, it's only fair you don't know my name.
What is a diary anyway? Something that personal, private thoughts are recorded used as a record of events or experiences. But why have that word? Diary, why not just call it a journal, a log, a record, an account chronicle. Even simply saying notebook would suffice. I don't think I'll be writing so frequently so I can't call you a day book. You can probably call me thesaurus, and your name diary will suffice.
I know you're an inanimate object that I "speak" to cover up the fact that I'm actually talking to myself but I suppose you'll be fun. I've never had a diary.
Now I remember what I wanted to write about. Fireworks. I refuse to say I was rambling as I think it was a fine way of getting ourselves acquainted.
Fireworks are used on various holidays but the one the one holiday I have in mind is New Year's Day. The whole topic of New Year's Day may slightly intrigue me, but it's the fireworks I always look forward to. Every year where I live there's always this pathetic display that somehow manages to repeat itself every time I come, and even though I'm used to everything- the shapes that are going to be made, the time I'll spend staring at them not even appreciating their physical beauty, just the mundaneness they remind me of that is my life; I start thinking how my routine life has its excitements and how the things I have come to find predictable, intrigue me the more they become a rut.
I like this life of mine being somewhat regular, expecting little tweaks along the way not knowing what they are but for the most part, living a rut.
Even though I like my life, ruts aren't always ideal. But I'm not a risky person, anything I do outside my circle of comfort is about just an inch away.
Putting a bit metaphor in my observation of fireworks I like how, like them, when I find something intriguing about my life I seem to catch some ignition in my mind and an explosion of reflection and new-found appreciation for life hit me. I relive it by pushing it to the back of my mind and moving on; forgetting whatever grand observation was made. But I thought I'd change that.
That's where you come in, that's where we meet, and that's how his whole thing started. Good practice for my writing huh?
January 1, XXXX
