“Why do you keep a diary?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked countless times, perhaps because I carry a notebook with me wherever I go. For years, I never knew quite how to answer it. The question always felt strangely similar to asking, “Why do you breathe?” or “Why do you eat?”
I’ve been filling notebooks for more than thirty years. Somewhere along the way, the years quietly accumulated, and keeping a diary became as instinctive as walking. It is no longer something I consciously choose to do. It’s simply part of how I move through life.
My first diary was a picture diary, which I began when I was five years old. Back then, it was enough to write a few simple sentences about what I had done, where I had been, and who I had spent the day with, alongside clumsy little drawings. Each completed sketchbook brought with it a quiet sense of accomplishment.
As the years passed, the drawings gradually gave way to words. Sketchbooks became notebooks, and once I was in school, each entry began with my schedule for the day.
But the greatest change wasn’t the length of what I wrote. It was what I chose to record. At some point, I stopped writing only about what had happened and began writing about what had happened within me. There were days when a single page wasn’t enough to understand why I felt the way I did, or what had unsettled me so deeply.
That was when my diaries began to grow longer.
Around the age of twenty, I found myself asking more and more questions about life. How should I live? Why was I the way I was? Whenever those questions became too loud to ignore, I wandered the shelves of the library in search of books, hoping to find the wisdom I needed most at that moment.
Every now and then, I would come across a sentence that felt like rain on parched ground. I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. I copied it into my diary, and beside it, I wrote down whatever thoughts it stirred in me. Little by little, my diary stopped being a record of the day and became a place where I could have a conversation with life itself. Each time I wrote, my breathing seemed to grow just a little deeper.
Thoughts and emotions that were once too difficult to bring into the open gradually took shape on the page. They met the words I had gathered from books, mingled with my own reflections, and slowly became clearer. Whenever I poured them onto paper, I found myself left with just enough breath to carry me into another day.
That is how my diary quietly became my oxygen mask. It never breathed for me. It simply helped me find my own breath again. If someone were to ask me why I have kept a diary for so many years, I think my answer would be simple. To keep breathing.
Keeping a diary is a wild garden that asks for nothing more than a notebook and a pen. It is a place where things are free to grow as they will. Unexpected flowers bloom. Sometimes there is nothing but weeds. At other times, I find myself observing an unfamiliar insect that has wandered in from somewhere beyond the page. It has never needed to be perfect to become the place where I feel most at ease. And so I will keep wandering through that garden, slowly, preserving each passing moment along the way.
*Reading in other languages:
*Continue reading:




