the difference between a journal and a diary

an intro to the vibe of the space

when i fell in love for the first time i shed layers of myself like a snake molting and began to feel sappily about every single thing around me. it was a good thing, like waking up from hibernation or stretching deep in the sun. i grew up funny, sarcastic, cold- it kept me safe from what i understood to be the pains and pitfalls of living.

feeling everything at once is delicious and overwhelming and recently i realized that it’s pretty unsustainable. i’d been beating myself up for not writing flowery prose about the wind in the trees and the sun in my mouth as often. but the truth is the pendulum swings. some days are sun in the mouth days and others are stare at the wall days.

i’d exhausted myself after a chapter of loving through a screen, relying on words. words, it turns out, funnily enough, aren’t the whole picture. so i went from words to touch and gave my words to someone else. (is this flowery enough?) touch, it turns out, isn’t the whole picture either. i floated through another chapter blind, navigating by feel and sensation. which arguably is delicious but arguably is tiring. and when i remembered my words they tasted bitter and i hated myself for it.

so i returned to myself. it’s frustrating to be reminded that the things you love the most, even if intrinsic, you must build to time and time again. you must build the muscle. you must ride the bike.

i love my words, i love talking about sunsets over and over again. but i have this weird little embarrassment in my stomach when i post my words that those farthest from me and closest to me are going ‘oh there goes lily, writing their little words about their little nothings and sharing them on her little instagram’. i don’t know what that is. if i had to parse that embarrassment out on a public forum i’d think that maybe in looking back on the way i was when i first opened up my heart and turned my diary into a journal i feel embarrassment for the fuzzy, bumbling self that only comes out with first love.

but why not chase that? the sky is still as blue as it was back then, if not bluer with maturity. why not be earnest and simple? i’d like to write out journals about the best days i’ve had and the worst. i’d like to list the best flavors and smells of the week. i’d like to be honest and lie. the only difference between a diary and a journal is caring about who reads it. so i might as well practice not caring.