Dear diary,
I think I’m in love.
The thing is, I think I’m in love… with you.
It’s crazy I’m only admitting this now. We’ve been friends
for a while, so I suppose you guessed, based on how frequently I take you off
the shelf, run my finger down your spine, open you, smell your pages, shudder
over how beautiful you look when I cover you with my small writing in that
regal violet pen. I suppose you knew for certain when I told you all my
secrets, but then came back for more. Sure, there aren’t many mysteries within
your pages, but you kept everything private, even the smallest things.
Somehow, when they were within your covers, my flaws seemed
less horrible.
We’ve talked before about how much trouble I had letting
myself make that first impression on your pages. It’s because I’ve made
mistakes before. But when I opened you up, you took my words willingly and made
them a part of yourself.
There have been mistakes. I had a relationship with someone
like you in primary school. He was decorated with pictures of cats, but I liked
his bright white pages and bold black lines. The way he could lock up made me
let my guard down. He wasn’t flashy but eventually, writing on his stark pages
made me realise he didn’t care, really. Secrets were housed but not embraced.
And he locked everything up too tightly. Instead of absorbing my mistakes and
my flaws and my bad days, he held them inside, and released them when I
unlocked him, a fresh wave of anguish.
Then there was the one with silver and purple flowers and
the purple pages. Mistakes were made, and you can’t use whiteout on purple
pages. He sits near you on the shelf, but I can’t open him anymore. Does he
tell you what I did to him? I ripped pages out with spelling mistakes and messy
writing. I hurt him. He was too perfect for me.
But you are simple. Blue and yellow, held shut with a piece
of elastic. Creamy white pages with pale grey lines. You are unassuming but
pretty. You don’t intimidate. You accept me how I am.
It pains me to admit that sometimes I look at others.
Flashier versions of you, perhaps, or fatter, or brighter or more intricate.
But lately, I always resist, because you are at home and you cannot be
replaced. There is no substitute.
There’s an inscription on your inside cover, indicating your
purpose to hold my hopes, my dreams, my tears. You have done all that and more.
My intention for you became your goal. You have lived to serve me.
And now you are close to being finished. Yes, you will be
replaced (and I’ll get used to a new one eventually…) so that I can continue my
stories, but what will I do with you? Will you be given away to someone in the
future, to share my secrets? Will you be thrown away when I move out or move
on?
I don’t know your future, but I know I am grateful for all
you have done. You don’t just give my words a house, you give them a home.
Love Liz
