As I reminisce through times gone by, I remember chunks of my life that lay forgotten in some drawer that has remained locked for years.
I remember diaries I used to write... copious amounts of words that spilled from my mind through my fingers as I obsessed about how to express my day. Diaries that I took the trouble to decorate and fuss over. Diaries that held memories imprinted on those pages I've forgotten to read. Diaries that I started writing even before I figured the meaning to write and document the vagaries of one's life.
I remember starting off with creating my own special and pretty awesome code language - the one tool that worked better than any diary you could buy with an attached lock in those days. And that code language flowed with such ease as I penned down my crushes, people I disliked, people I felt vengeful against, people I secretly admired, people I wanted to do away with, people I loved being around, people I hated, people who made me cry, people who made me feel all sorts of things... My code language was my weapon of expression, my one true friend who never spilled the beans and kept all my secrets where they were supposed to be. I even felt a certain amount of camaraderie between the two of us when prying younger siblings or even nosy friends wanted to "read" my diary - the secrecy we shared gave me such a high.
As I grew up, so did the pile of diaries, as I wrote voraciously. As I grew up, I also saw a change in the way I expressed myself. Right from choosing a diary (from Lion King covers to more artistic and mellow print covers) to what I wrote to how I expressed myself. As time passed, the relationship between my code language and me gave way to a more mature form of communication - the use of English. I began expressing my thoughts, feelings and opinions over exact details and moments that had made my day. I loved looking at the change, I loved being a part of the change that was me, I loved what I saw and read.
As time raced on enveloping me in my academics and tuitions and the Big Bad Boards (for I studied in school where exams - annual and any other - didn't exist), the time to write steadily dwindled. What was once a daily ritual now became a weekend thing to something that was completely phased out. It was at this time that we got a new chest of drawers - one for my brother, one for me. And this is where I chose to keep these diaries and other memorabilia away for later days. In a bid to keep these thoughts, memories and documents so safely, I locked the drawer. I remember opening the drawer regularly to read and reminisce about the stories those words weaved.
Today, it's been years since I even opened that locked drawer. Today, those memories have been stashed away so carefully that the keys aren't to be found.
I remember diaries I used to write... copious amounts of words that spilled from my mind through my fingers as I obsessed about how to express my day. Diaries that I took the trouble to decorate and fuss over. Diaries that held memories imprinted on those pages I've forgotten to read. Diaries that I started writing even before I figured the meaning to write and document the vagaries of one's life.
I remember starting off with creating my own special and pretty awesome code language - the one tool that worked better than any diary you could buy with an attached lock in those days. And that code language flowed with such ease as I penned down my crushes, people I disliked, people I felt vengeful against, people I secretly admired, people I wanted to do away with, people I loved being around, people I hated, people who made me cry, people who made me feel all sorts of things... My code language was my weapon of expression, my one true friend who never spilled the beans and kept all my secrets where they were supposed to be. I even felt a certain amount of camaraderie between the two of us when prying younger siblings or even nosy friends wanted to "read" my diary - the secrecy we shared gave me such a high.
As I grew up, so did the pile of diaries, as I wrote voraciously. As I grew up, I also saw a change in the way I expressed myself. Right from choosing a diary (from Lion King covers to more artistic and mellow print covers) to what I wrote to how I expressed myself. As time passed, the relationship between my code language and me gave way to a more mature form of communication - the use of English. I began expressing my thoughts, feelings and opinions over exact details and moments that had made my day. I loved looking at the change, I loved being a part of the change that was me, I loved what I saw and read.
As time raced on enveloping me in my academics and tuitions and the Big Bad Boards (for I studied in school where exams - annual and any other - didn't exist), the time to write steadily dwindled. What was once a daily ritual now became a weekend thing to something that was completely phased out. It was at this time that we got a new chest of drawers - one for my brother, one for me. And this is where I chose to keep these diaries and other memorabilia away for later days. In a bid to keep these thoughts, memories and documents so safely, I locked the drawer. I remember opening the drawer regularly to read and reminisce about the stories those words weaved.
Today, it's been years since I even opened that locked drawer. Today, those memories have been stashed away so carefully that the keys aren't to be found.
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