Dear Diary,
I remember when I held you in my arms for the first time.
After buying a series of books, you were given to me free of charge.
You even came with your own set of a lock and key.
My writing pattern was irregular, but you are living proof of my life.
The picture may spark memories, but the pencil is still in my hand.
I embed my feelings into your former blank pages.
Even today, I remember what year and time I wrote in the page.
I was 5 when you came into my life.
Every year, I rediscover you.
Taking the pen in my hand, the ink emits off your pages.
I remember having other diaries.
But their pages remained blank.
How did I choose you to be the one I write in?
The one I dedicate my time and years to?
You’re just like them, aren’t you?
But you’re not.
Are you a virus?
Or an angel?
Somehow, you survived middle school.
You even survived high school.
Now, I will be entering college.
I grasp your felt cover once more.
There is only one question I have left to ask.
Do I take you with me?
Or do I leave you behind?
I was thinking of leaving you behind, at first.
To keep you at home so you wouldn’t lose your way.
That’s what I thought would have been best.
But when I unlocked you and rubbed my fingers across your pages, I changed my mind.
When the school days dwindled and graduation drew nearer, I received a letter.
It was a letter from my freshman year.
I couldn’t remember the assignment, but the content was about my future.
My freshman innocence was almost laughable.
I soaked in the letter, remembering how I used to be.
And then I found it.
The reason why I write.
I write for myself.
I write from my heart.
I write for the ideas.
I write for the dreams.
I write for the possibilities.
It gives me the courage to continue.
Encouragement to no longer desire failure.
But to embrace success.
With that, I have answered my own question.
I give you one last glance.
I bring you into my chest.
So even you, diary, can understand what my heart needs.
I’m taking you with me.
I’m taking you with me because I want to remember.
You are the reason I began writing.
And the reason I continue.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
Dear Diary,
I remember when I held you in my arms for the first time.
After buying a series of books, you were given to me free of charge.
You even came with your own set of a lock and key.
My writing pattern was irregular, but you are living proof of my life.
The picture may spark memories, but the pencil is still in my hand.
I embed my feelings into your former blank pages.
Even today, I remember what year and time I wrote in the page.
I was 5 when you came into my life.
Every year, I rediscover you.
Taking the pen in my hand, the ink emits off your pages.
I remember having other diaries.
But their pages remained blank.
How did I choose you to be the one I write in?
The one I dedicate my time and years to?
You’re just like them, aren’t you?
But you’re not.
Are you a virus?
Or an angel?
Somehow, you survived middle school.
You even survived high school.
Now, I will be entering college.
I grasp your felt cover once more.
There is only one question I have left to ask.
Do I take you with me?
Or do I leave you behind?
I was thinking of leaving you behind, at first.
To keep you at home so you wouldn’t lose your way.
That’s what I thought would have been best.
But when I unlocked you and rubbed my fingers across your pages, I changed my mind.
When the school days dwindled and graduation drew nearer, I received a letter.
It was a letter from my freshman year.
I couldn’t remember the assignment, but the content was about my future.
My freshman innocence was almost laughable.
I soaked in the letter, remembering how I used to be.
And then I found it.
The reason why I write.
I write for myself.
I write from my heart.
I write for the ideas.
I write for the dreams.
I write for the possibilities.
It gives me the courage to continue.
Encouragement to no longer desire failure.
But to embrace success.
With that, I have answered my own question.
I give you one last glance.
I bring you into my chest.
So even you, diary, can understand what my heart needs.
I’m taking you with me.
I’m taking you with me because I want to remember.
You are the reason I began writing.
And the reason I continue.
