“Wow! You can express things! You can explain really well! Why don’t you try writing something?” He often used to say this.
I used to brush this aside saying , “I don’t require everybody to understand me except a few. So I don’t need to write when those few understand me.”
I never wanted him to be restricted to my outer face , the one which we keep for the world. Speciality is marked by something unique, and I tried to mark his speciality in my life by showing him the inner me , the weaker me , the more vulnerable me. Yes I tried but I failed.
Owing to all this, I wrote. Yes , I decided to write for the first time. I enjoyed writing each word in those pages , I enjoyed pasting each picture in that diary and I enjoyed drawing each caricature of us. I enjoyed every bit of decoration that I did that first time.
Despite all this I am not able to understand why was I not able to express myself to him. Maybe because it was the first time I wrote. Maybe because I was not good enough that time.
That first time was the unwanted urge to express myself in written words. It was compulsion I felt, a way to put down-the weights my soul was carrying. Now I am in love with that urge to write. Now is not unwanted. Now it’s the need, a way of survival.
Yes my dear diary, you are not with me but I miss you every moment of the day. I miss you every time I hold my pen to write. It’s good and perfect and soothing that you have regenerated yourself in my ghost. Yes , i got your company. I accept your condolence to my seclusion. The eerie silence that once existed there is dominated by your presence now.