introspection

I may or may not have read excerpts of someone's diary in the last day or two, and I may or may not have felt some moral conflict there. I know all too well how private, how personal a diary is; there was a part of me feeling extremely uncomfortable with the whole encounter.

Having said that, I confess to some level of cruel amusement at the things I read, and I tamped down the unease by telling myself, "Well, there's always this risk, when you keep a diary, that it will be found and read. This person should have taken more care not to get it found."

Immediately after I thought that, I hated myself. I genuinely did. It was just as good as saying to a rape victim, "Well, you should have taken more care not to get assaulted." And regardless of any other moral issues in my nasty core, I've always detested, despised the societal norm that blames victims for being too "easy"; the same societal norm that has evidently wormed its way into some horrible part of me that desperately tried to avoid blame or guilt.

I won't deny my interest in finding out more, reading more. But neither will I deny that I am doing something wrong. This person is by no means a good person, and has proven to be someone I can no longer respect, but it does not change that fact that my being wronged is no justification for this breach of integrity. I've never denied having a decidedly slanted (not twisted, just...bent) character. So... yeah.

I don't know anymore. A part of me wishes that I'd never discovered this person's true character, that I'd be able to stay in blissful ignorance. Yet another, perhaps the larger, accepts it, and burns for more revelation — more retribution, even.

People are multifaceted. People are endlessly fragmented. I know that well. I also know how easy it is to pick the more comfortable way out, ascribing a character or personality to someone and then neglecting all the inner and outer conflicts that make up the important parts of the person.

Even as we scheme against this person, each fueled by our own hurt and betrayal, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt. I've seen enough to realise that this person is, at the heart of it all, a confused, pained young adult whose life has been a sorry tale of lie after lie — a shoddy defence mechanism. The schemes we concoct are harmless enough, and serve only to covertly prove our theories. If it gets any further, though, I have to wonder if I'll be strong enough to put my foot down.

If there's one thing I know for sure, though, it's that I will never keep a proper diary. Not only because I would never be able to commit to near-daily entries, mind you. I suppose one might argue that I pour a lot of personal content into blogging, but while I agree that blogging is as close as I would get to writing diary entries, I must say a lot of it is carefully screened. Most posts I make in fits of emotion don't make it past the Drafts page.

Exams in a week. What joy.