If my blog could speak, it would smack me on my head for cheating on it . And, if my blog could do that, then my diary would definitely give me more than just an earful. I sleep next to it everyday yet am completely ignorant of it . The last thing I have jotted  down in it  is a nonchalant MOM for a work call I took a couple months ago.

In my self defence, I started writing diary at an age of 10 thinking that my life should be chronicled . That it would be fun to read the events leading upto the very day I decide to 'publish' them . For a 10 year old me, my life was supposed to be adventurous enough to be a Novel !

But now when I go through the pages , I have a sense of melancholy . A distant longing for time lost . A feeble ache for people loved.
Even when I am reading the pages with a smile on my face,  I feel a sting in my heart .

How many times have I picked up the pen but just could not gather anything worth to put in . When I am happy , I am out there being happy . And when I am sad, I am reluctant to pen it down , thinking that if I don't write about it , its not real. 

To write , means to give your thoughts life, a concrete form, which make them real . It can be overwhelming , specially when you have spent so much time trying NOT to give those feelings a chance to manifest into anything other than a distant thing happening to some parallel version of you in a parallel universe.

And unlike keyboard, there is no backspace. you write without a beginning and without a ending in mind . Just like life .

Not all things end . How many times we end things just to pick up the pieces again ?

just like my relationship with my diary and blog. Years may pass, but we will pick up right where it began - in a glorious day of my glorious life !

Till the next💡