Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I always thought that was a funny way to start writing, yet something about it makes it almost easier to fill the rest of the page with ink. It gives us a false impression of meaningfulness- as if we’re writing to somebody- as if our thoughts are important enough to be appreciated by another soul. But they’re not, and I’m afraid mine never will be.

Because until you have something to write about, the only audience for your thoughts will be the diary that you write them in.

By Austyn Malynn

Dear Diary, What do you suppose is the meaning of pain? It’s all around us these days and I’m not quite sure of the meaning it holds. Everyone is suffering in some way, and I’m beginning to think pain can no longer be described as something special or something different from that of our default settings. If we’re all in pain, how can it be relative? I used to think pain was something that made our stories different from the others. Now, I don’t think pain makes us different; it makes us human.

Dear Diary,

I’ve always found that the concept of love escapes me. It’s not the feeling that I can’t understand, it’s the very essence of love that I’ve never been able to grasp. I’d like to think that it’s more than just attraction. I’d like to think that it’s just as magical as the movies paint it to be. The thing is, I’ve found it quite rare for things to live up to their on-screen counterparts. So often we are told that love is the goal, the happily ever after, the thing that makes life worth living.

But if it is, in fact, a facade- what happens to our happy endings? The possibility that love is simply a distraction from the mediocrity of the human condition is the everpresent thorns on the long stemmed rose. But in the end, just because the flower has thorns, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love a rose once in a while.