I love to write in a diary. Loved it perhaps. My diaries were never fancy, maybe because I could never afford one. It was I think 2015 when I decided not to write every day religiously. I threw away all my previous diaries. Frankly speaking, I would have liked to burn them at that point of time. Why the wrath, why I had so resolutely committed to break a harmless habit? I have no idea. I can make a guess, but I can’t reason it. May be if I had kept the diaries, I could tell for sure what it was about.
I still write though. In a big book with a pretty cover, but now I write only that which I want to remember. The diary is in its 4th year now and it’s not even half done. I turned the pages to where 2018 began and since then I had 16 episodes, moments or feelings I didn’t want to forget. My first thought was that I might be leaning less and less towards recording. I tried to recollect any memory from 2018 that I might not have jotted down. Nothing much came up.
So these 16 were only what I had left as retrospect. Each was so different than the other. Some philosophical, some humorous, some spiritual, some introspective, some disheartening, some perceptive, some angsty, some very peaceful but all of them were vehement. All very good.
However, I kept coming back to the day I threw my diaries away. Those around me welcoming 2019 were becoming nostalgic, sharing snippets of their wonderful past year, making resolutions and being optimistic. Their path seemed well-lit up and those things that they had left behind, in hindsight, they seemed determined to do something about it.
I kept coming back to my diaries. Wondering if I threw them away because I didn’t want my intense and most memorable moments to get lost in an ocean of mundane moments. Maybe I didn’t want, again, the mundane and useless to fill-up pages and not let me see just how empty my life truly can be. Maybe I didn’t want the retrospect. Someone brought to my notice that children don’t really have a retrospect. Therefore, all they care about is growing up. Maybe I really didn’t want a retrospect to color the moments that were to come. Maybe. That’s all I have. Maybe if I had kept my diaries, I could have known for sure what it is about.