I went up to my room and ran my hand along the bookcase. I admired the cracked backs of my books trying to recall when I read them all. Some stuck out as old favourites, greeting me eagerly as if to be asked to be read again. I pulled two out and thumbed through the pages and hugging them to my chest, promised myself to put them in my handbag before leaving.
Before I turned to go, the spine of a thin book caught my attention. It was a journal, blank and neglected till now. The cover was designed by the same artist that had designed another diary I had written in before. It had been a gift, destroyed shortly after someone read it and I burned it in retaliation. Although I thought I was making a statement, the real punishment had been mine. Had I been indignant for the intrusion and unapologetic for what I had written, it would still be with me. Thoughts and memories and ideas, rightly or wrongly, would be mine to review and resurrect. Likewise, the apology would have been for the betrayal of my privacy and not for the perceived insult I had written within the book’s pages. A month after my gift had gone up in smoke, I had wandered into a bookstore and recognised the designer name on a blank book. I brought it home with me and there it sat until this evening.
I regret destroying my diary and I’ve promised myself never to let anyone influence what I write or think or express in the privacy in my journals again.
So, I’ve begun to write in my long forgotten book. For now, I challenge you, reader, to write everyday, uncensored. Be diligent. Pick up a notebook and pour out your heart and don’t be afraid of what others might find there.
Be brave and write.