Dear Diary, apologies for not writing much. My ex peruses this diary on occasion. Last year he sent me emails, critiquing my writing and telling me if something I posted was shit. Recently he "let slip" the name of a place I've visited, something he could have only gleaned from reading here. He made assumptions about this place, which isn't the first time. When I saw him last, he had commented, You are in an unhappy place. You always look so sad in photos. These were photos he saw on a public page for a local cycling advocacy group via a social networking site, taken months before we met.

Jeezus, man. Even a profligate Internet offers to the voyeur no full measure of a person, only textual glimmers and algorithms that attest to the color of their hair or the shape of their face. Much about myself remains hidden, even to myself. Any reader comes here to a realm of uncertain time and space, of mythologies and sublimations. There is no 'Real' here. Only veils upon veils, screens upon screens, upon which are projected certain details, moments distilled from the everyday, chosen from an infinitude of instances.

Anyways, when a particular reader presumes to make judgments about my life based on this diary or inform me about my emotional state, locking up this diary would only satisfy their fantasy of control.

<<