Diary of a Lover
(For those broken hearts, that love find you yet again) (art credit: Google) The last word in my dairy was love . It was in bold, cap letters, I remember. My diary was kept a secret. A secret I kept from everyone else, for myself; a secret account of everything I feared and hoped for, of love and hatred, of pain and gain. I read it every day because it reminds me of everything I had and all I wanted to have. Basically, I kept diaries to express myself; to shout when someone tries to shut me up; it helps me to say everything. In my diary I sing, I laugh, I cry. In essence, my diary makes my muteness eloquent. Today, I am holding my diary in my hand – my secret book, thinking if some of the entries are mere accounts of my dreams. How things change! The last page was dated 16 th August, 2008. Saturday, August 2008. My friend once told me that love is nothing but illusion; he calls it a mirage. He said it was something in your mind. “Just an imagination,” he would say.