Dear Diary

Back in high school, English lectures were my favourite. From literature classes to writing ones, there was always something new to learn. I remember the first time my English teacher taught us how to write a diary entry; the nuances involved while writing one and the customary opening words – “Dear diary”. I have always wondered the significance of this conventional salutation; as to how something inanimate as a logbook can be so crucial to someone to garner the prefix dear. It was not until I turned twenty that I ventured into the metaphorical realms of this simple, yet so complex mechanism.

Over the years I have realised that the best part about a day-book is you can be brutally honest, yet not feel guilty about being judged. You don’t have to filter things and inscribe them on the pages. The white sheets soak all your quests alike. The skin of the diary smells of the nights you’ve been up and poured your heart out to it in an attempt to attain redemption from the cold world. So here’s to my current best companion:

Dear diary,

You’re the newest one to be added to my collection. Just a couple of months old, yet having the deepest impact on my being. You’re proving to be the beautiful hand which catches me right before I hit the bottom in an ocean of anger; always there when I break down. Knowing me the first and the best, you let me talk about the downfalls and lend an ear in these noisy surroundings. When I turn into a racist and can only fathom to see black and white, you make me see sepia. It’s like I have a connection with you on some other level; a bond which mere words will fail to describe. Together, our world is a kaleidoscope because, black and white never shine so bright.

You’re different. Unlike the other diaries which have offered me bleached pages, you give me colourful ones; everyday adding a new hue to my monotonous life. Your aroma trails softly as you lay by my side, senses remain awakened by the lingering touch of soft palms and mind ruminates over velvet words until next time I can sit and smear your skin with meaningful words. Infatuation over memories is an ordinary occurrence but you make them even more beautiful. You’re definitely the love version of my quantum entanglement.

If only you could listen to the rummages of my tumultuous heart, you could hear how thankful I am to have picked the best one from the bookstore. Know that I’m never giving up on you, even if it requires writing on the margins. But the latter won’t be possible for sure. You already have too many sheets for my lifetime. Because, you, are my human diary. 

PS: You’re definitely dear to me.

Mamta

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