Blank Diaries..

I wrote once ages ago, when I used to write a diary, a proper paper one, that there is no more empty feeling than sitting in front of a blank piece of paper. I don't lay claim to be the originator of this quote, I'm sure someone said it before me. But the meaning I meant to convey then still rings true even though the UHVPN diary has been replaced by this laptop and my trusty Reynolds 045 by this touch type keyboard.

You feel so desolate when the white page stares back at you unstained, as if rebuking and mocking you for not having a word to write. When I had begun writing that old diary way back in '93, it was a Herculean task. I'd start every entry with, "I don't know what to write". Then later I got into the habit and filled in pages after pages. Of course, most of what I penned down was what I recollected of my school days. Small incidents, fights, games, the fun we had, everything I could remember. I felt a great sadness at leaving school. On the one hand was the excitement of going to college and not having to wear uniforms and being able to bunk classes, but on the other hand there were the pangs of sorrow at separating from so many of my close friends. Having been in the same school from kindergarten to matriculation, I had put down roots, as it were, there. I had had the same teachers, the same friends, the same everything for over 10 years, and 10 of the formative years of my life. So I knew I was going to miss it all. So I wanted to remember all of it, and I set about penning down what I fancifully called my 'memoirs' every day. At the time I had thought it was just an excuse for me to have something to write everyday. Looking back at it though, I am so thankful I did! So many little instances and events, things I'd never have remembered if I hadn't put them down bring so much joy to me as I read through them again.

Of course as time passed and I grew both older and into the habit of writing a diary, my entries grew more personal and introspective. Rather than just mentioning what had happened, I would talk about what I felt and why I thought I felt it. Then when I was going through a very rough patch in '97, my writing was cathartic to me. All the self doubts that plagued me came out of my pen to taint the pages in front of me and I felt somewhat cleansed. My diary, as an extension of my own self, became the friend and counsellor I desperately needed at that time in my life.

Once I was out of the hostel though, things took a different shape and circumstances got way out of my hand. I tried to regain in the habit during MS, but couldn't. A few entries here and there were the most I could manage. Now it's been ages since I wrote my diary and I wonder if I have a lost a big part of me with it.