Its very difficult for me to make my mind. To choose what I stand for and be sure of what I will become from my thoughts is correct. To run away from judgements of people and actually form my own original thoughts. It’s like “writing” down my thoughts is the only place for me to pour out my heart without hesitation. Because you, Dear Diary are an inanimate object with no voice of your own.
I try to be as thoughtful as I can when I pen things down into you because I feel, even though YOU have no voice of your own, my own thoughts should not damage your personality. My empathy refuses to write down my nasty thoughts because I feel why should I subject you to the dirty dirty world we live in. I also do this to save myself from revisiting the negatives when I come back to you from time to time. You, dear diary are a reminder to me that I do think of things which bring me and anyone who would read it joy. I say anyone who read you because I genuinely doubted the concept of privacy when my mum read you when I was 14.
I remember scribbling to you one summer evening when I had a heartache, “Love, Madness, Hope, Infinite Joy”. I had read “God of Small things” and was taken aback by the sheer purity of the writing. How even in pain, the writing could stir so much in me that I decided to live by these words. “Love, Madness, Hope, Infinite Joy.”
I know I hadn’t been kind to you before that day. I remember not even looking back at you before that because I realised that no matter what, I would never truly be alone, that small act of mother stirred a huge sense of the fact that my thoughts have consequences. No, my mother wasn’t judgemental, but yes she was concerned. I had written about a boy and had put a heart emoji next to it. I was young, barely 14. This probably was my first encounter with feeling giddy about a boy. My mother asked me questions about him out of the blue and I felt vulnerable. I felt powerless and I hated that feeling. So I decided to shut the whole thing down and concentrate on my studies because results were tangible and important.
From that day on, dreams became the only place which was truly private. I dreamt of becoming an IAS officer and giving back to society. I dreamt of becoming a software engineer and earning money, I dreamt of exploring the world. Experience and Learn.
The dreams were not judgemental but there were not tangible too. There were times I forgot what I dreamt of and desired that there should be some way for me to preserve them. I read a lot so that I could dream new things but then again I would wake up and forget what I dreamt of.
I came back to you again with Love and Madness and hoped to bring Infinite Joy whenever I visited you back. You still are private but I write not only for myself but for you too. I write to give you a voice. I don’t feel vulnerable or powerless anymore. I show you to my Mum and she feels proud of what I have become with you. I also write my most weak but optimistic moments with you because I genuinely feel there is light. I write for both of us because you too are a representation of me.
Dear Diary, You are loved.