It occurred to me today that I keep a mental diary. I used to keep a written one back when I was in school, but I rarely wrote about my thoughts and feelings. I kept it in a series of small notebooks, more to note events, things I did, silly stuff. I tried to keep it up and even wrote some personal stuff in it when I was in college, but the entries were few and far between and eventually, I just stopped writing in it.
But I've always mused about things, my thoughts, my feelings, the things that happen in my life. In a sense, I tell myself stories of the past, remind myself of what just happened or happened years ago. I used to tell myself I was obsessing, that I couldn't help my mind wandering. I would chide myself for rehashing things seemingly endlessly. But today, in the middle of one such rumination about my less than great relationship with my sister, I realized that what I do in my mind is mentally write and read diary entries I've made in my mind.
I don't like writing down anything too personal. I don't want anyone to find that someday, while I'm alive or after I'm dead. I keep those things to myself, the thoughts and fears, the embarrassments and annoyances, the things I wouldn't mind forgetting but can't seem to let go. I etch them in my mind and continually review them so I won't forget. They become mental soliloquies, synaptic essays that can be pieced together to form my life. They are the things no one else will ever know.
Sometimes, it's hard for me to separate the memories from the dreams, reality from fantasies, but I don't think that matters. They are all part of me, and isn't that what diaries are for?