A stack of papers,
A compendium of all the memories from my past.
As i look at my old journal now, i try to remember the exact time when i stopped keeping one.
It saddens me,
to realize that I failed to prevent the death of a hobby that once gave me so much comfort.
I was never expressive, nor did I ever seek
comfort in the consolations of others.
But scribbling down haphazard words managed to soothe my nerves whenever I needed an outlet.
An inanimate object managed to fill a void,
That no other living person was capable of doing
I had, and still have a hard time trusting people,
its funny because i have never faced betrayal as such
i have a pretty decent family, a few ups and downs no doubt, but I wouldnt wish for anything more or different
But somehow i could never connect with people emotionally
I found solace in being alone, jotting down my thoughts in my beloved journal.
Its an idyllic sight, might I add,
me sitting near my window with my journal,
I would laugh and cry and yet it would stare back at me with absolutely no emotion,
Nevertheless, that seemed more welcoming than any other sight.
my thoughts were unfiltered,
my mind unbothered by the thought of being treated any differently than I expected.

Now, the journal just reminds of a old friend I parted ways with,
a friend that wiped my tears and joined me in my pleasant times even without speaking a single word,
without showing any emotion,
And yet it was and continues to be the treasurer of my private thoughts and a memoir that has kept my past experiences alive and afresh.


-rpg