We have all had great moments in our lives that we would like to immortalize. Fun parties that we would like to relive, and awful and painful times that we would like to forget. Alas, we can’t, simply because they give meaning to our lives. All those moments, milestones achieved, and wonderful instants were kept in my diary, where I could just write down my feelings and reflections. My diary was more than a best friend. It was my soulmate.
My diary had many pages. It was very big, but I used it niggardly, fear of depleting it. All those amazing fresh papers were designed for the forthcoming events. Beautiful or sad ones, I did not care. What was important was my connection with my lovely diary. The way I shared everything with it, and how it was patient with me, listening to me without any judgment.
I can recall how, every night before I slept, I had to take it, and do a daily reflection. I would write down how my day was, how fun or terrible the teachers had been, how my marks had been in the quizzes, how cool my friends had been, which kinds of games we had played, and more. I had such a great connection with it that, despite the heavy slumber, I could keep writing until I finished. The next morning I would take it again, and write down how I wanted my day to look. I was in love with my diary. It helped me so much. I could keep my thoughts organized, set and achieve my goals for the whole day, and always find a way to change and improve myself. It was among the best things that have happened to me!
Last year, I had to move to a new town to continue my studies. The day before, I had to clean up where I kept my copybooks, books and other school materials. I decided to burn the unnecessary papers and a bunch of other old stuff. A few minutes later, as I was coming to see how things were going, I saw my lovely diary igniting! I was so shocked at how carelessly I had not noticed my diary below the bunch of papers. I did not react. I was terrified at what I had done. Everything was reduced to ashes except its padlock which was on the floor. My diary was gone forever. I cannot describe the bleakness I slept with that night. I was guilty of the disappearance of my soulmate. The one who knew all my secrets. The one who accompanied me every time. The one who, without fault of judgment, could just let me write and explore the beauty of silence; the one that did not lie to me.
When morning came, I went outside, barefoot, to contemplate the sunrise. I trampled on the dark place where everything had burned, picked up the padlock, and returned in the house. I took my clothes and things and wrapped up everything in my suitcase, ready to move in another city, without my best friend.
Now I have a new diary, but this one is different. It is not as chummy as my old one. Its blank pages are not as appealing. Whenever I look at it, I feel a stupid guilt of having destroyed the one with the attractive pages. But, I am learning to love it. At least it has the same padlock as my soulmate.
