My reminiscent diary

I was cleaning my bookshelf the other day. The pile was just building up, begging me for a much pending clean up. As I started with dusting the shelves and removing the books, I reached to the farthest end and caught hold of something. Something I had kept there long back, well hidden from view. It was my personal diary.

Well, I started writing this diary when once I woke up in the middle of the night fearing that one day I might loose all the cherished memories of life unless I found a way to preserve them. I made it a habit to write the diary and it was my prized possession. I wrote a lot. A lot about childhood, friends, school, everything I was lucky enough to have. Episodes gradually moved to graduating from engineering to taking up the first job. Many names made their way into the diary. Names that meant the world to me. This was one place I could visit at will and relive all the good times I had experienced.

No sooner, one name started frequenting much more than others. Soon I was filling out pages, writing about how I met her, how I felt about her, things I liked about her. In more pages to follow, no names of my friends got a mention, no incidences about work made their way into the diary. It was just me and her. I was in love and the diary was my rendezvous with her. It was here that I had written many things even before telling her in person.

It had everything. The first poem I wrote for her, followed by many others over the time. Vivid memories of my first date with her. My anticipations, my inhibitions, my confrontations. Everything. I found it easy to write down the stuff to clear the clutter from my mind. I was thinking too much and too far. Could I help it? No. Did I like it? Yes.

And then one day, the writing just stopped. Last few pages being a painful saga of things not fallen into place. I found solace in writing it down. Trying to analyse what went wrong. Few questions were left unanswered. I let them be. Simply accepted the fact and moved on. Thinking that it would be as easy as it sounded. The writing stopped abruptly, never to be resumed again.

It was reminiscent of a many things as I laid my hands on that diary after so many years. I took the effort to read through it. Knowing it would be a mistake to do so, I still skimmed through. As I read through to the last page, I could see how things have changed over the years. The very first thing I realised was about the poems. Poetic talent sincerely eludes me now. I just don't get the meaning. Could I have been that "poetic" then? I read about things that I'd rarely do now. Could I have been that hopeless a romantic? I could not believe it was me writing these things few years back. 'Creativity is at its zenith when in love'. If what I read in an article long back were true then surely this diary was my creative best. All for someone who held a special place in my heart then. 

I cannot relate with anything of the sort now. All the creativity and emotions disappeared the day I stopped writing that diary. I swore never to write in it again. Things have changed. Hopefully for good. I don't long to go back to being how I was a few years back. Nor does it hurt not to have lived and fulfilled the things I wanted to do then.

A unfulfilled love, an incomplete diary, frail traces of a creative me...maybe these are some things I can live with. It just does not matter anymore. As for the said person in the diary, I hope she will be happy with whichever path she chooses to move on.

Time to put the diary back in its place. Have some cleaning to do.