Why so serious?

I will admit, letting people know who you are makes it harder to express yourself, without fear. So many things you'd like to talk about, without having to think if one person or the other will come and ask why or where or for full details. Not to say I complain that I've met wonderful people even though half the time the white sheet comes with a dollop of black paint. It's life isnt it? They say shit happens.
Maybe I should revert back to my journal where I can safely purge it all out. Like sick, it just pushes its way out, of course with a little effort on my end, I heave every other second and it all comes pouring out. After I cant heave anymore and the sick is down the drains that are the pages of my diary, then I wash my face, close the diary and say to myself that I do feel better. That I have rid myself of the things that make me lie in bed and allow insecurity to eat me alive, starting with my self esteem and then working its way up to my paranoia, and then probably towards the direction of my sanity and by the end of a whole of 5 minutes, I can confidently say I feel like shit. But once again, there's that stream of guilt that seeps into my brain, leaves those little drops of information that remind me of the things I should be grateful for. That even though some aspects of my life are not that great at the moment, the others make me feel like the sun always shines on the other side of me. That the bird's squeaking sounds remind me that its the dawn of a new day. That the dry patches on the leaf indicate that the sun is here, dried off the dew that are the reminders of the previous night. That lights the corners of me that remain unlit, undiscovered and certainly untouched. Then I bask in the glory of illumination till the night comes again and the cycle begins all over again.