Khaidar's Journals

When a man let me read his journals

I moved into a new apartment, taking the place of Khaidar. As I was setting up my office, I noticed a stack of notebooks in the overhead shelves. I leafed through and saw the words “success,” “lonely,” the virtues and deficiencies of a man named Nathaniel in bullet points, and to-do lists. These were Khaidar’s journals. I texted him that I found them. Khaidar and I are practically strangers, I thought, though perhaps with an affinity? Maybe I should have just ignored them? But how could anyone confronted with a trove of someone’s innermost thoughts repress the desire to read them, at the same time, struggling with the dishonourable and unholy act of doing so without permission? He said yes, casually in fact, as long as I had zero judgment. I promised.

It may seem self-evident that in a private diary one would write freely, without self-consciousness, but I think for certain kinds of people this wouldn’t be the case. Blank pages can be overwhelming, there could be a sense of imitation, for example, or apprehension, to what one would write. Reading the journals, I was struck with the sense of freedom; these journals are the natural extension of a Proud man. And he can be honest, and at times, though rarely, pleading or plaintive in a way that isn’t always possible in speech: “I wish I was vulnerable enough to tell this to people out loud.”

Khaidar’s handwriting is rather androgynous, sloping, whimsical, and sometimes difficult to read, as though he is rushing to catch up with his own thoughts. And the content of the journal reflects this—he is talking to himself, at the rapid pace of consciousness, trying to arrive at decisions and conclusions. Based on these pages, Khaidar is driven, relentless, dreaming, desiring. His to-do lists are always in the middle of his diary entrees—what’s next, what he wants to do, what he needs to do. He self-deprecates less than he affirms himself, reminding himself of truths (present and anticipatory), convincing himself of who he is, bolstering himself: “If it can snow in the middle of April, then I can become as successful as I want.” He writes less about people than he does about his dreams. He is looking ahead and through rather than behind and around. He can also be really funny, always with the basis in the sincerity of a private record: “This year is like a huge dildo fucking me slowly…most of the time it feels good, sometimes at certain angles it’s really painful, but overall I’m tired from it, it’s too big.”

He’ll often write in terms of we and let’s rather than I or I will. I interpreted this as his life having many parts, elements, sides—and the plural reflects this, as does the feeling of being a friend to yourself.

Of course, what interested me most, what might interest anyone most, were his thoughts on love. He is not obsessive, this kind of talk isn’t a constant in his journals, but when it comes up, there is a feeling of sweetness and euphoria, as well as a softening effect, to his personality. “Can’t stop thinking about him. So cute. Precious. I’d date him. I’d fall in love with him. I’d spend the whole day just laying in bed with him! Ah. So cute… I love the idea of you. You’re very nice. I will see you again. I want to feel like the only one.” It is especially touching reading how someone as ambitious as Khaidar still has such a capacity for tenderness—he is humbled by affection, maybe everyone is. And there is some romantic advice included too: “I’d kiss him sober. That’s when you know you’re really attracted to the person.”

I couldn’t believe Khaidar trusted me with his journals. Before beginning this endeavour, if someone I didn’t know too well asked to read my journals I would definitely decline—I would be suspicious, cynical, covetous, embarassed. Khaidar’s trust in me inspires me to think differently, and in general I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how viewing others with suspicion—from strangers, to friends, family and coworkers—while being at times a protective instinct, can often lead to unnecessary punishment, paranoia, and misunderstanding. The basis of this whole undertaking, on Khaidar’s part, was trust. And it is because of that trust that I got to know a beautiful person, through his private words. Zero judgment—seems impossible, but that’s what happened.