My diary

I have this little notebook that my cousin gave me for Christmas when I was ten. I'm not sure if she remembers it or not, but she reads this blog so she'll be reminded in any case.

So this notebook. It's small, and I carry it around with me everywhere. I've used it as a diary, a memo, as a scrap book for my ideas. I've written tiny stories in it, and I've written down ideas for bigger stories. Random pieces of my thoughts, hopes and dreams from the age of ten all the way up to now age eighteen. There's only a few pages left, but I'll make them last. I write slowly and randomly. This notebook isn't meant for organised thought. It's meant for expression.

I love this book.

It embarrasses me sometimes, because there are whole pages where my ten, or thirteen, or sixteen year old self would whine about things that aren't important anymore. Things that probably weren't important even then. And sometimes I read it and I rediscover the beginnings of a story I started to write, and then forgotten about.

It's disorganised, and badly kept, and  I don't write in it regularly, and it's messy, and it's childish.

In other words it's perfect.

So thanks Ciosa. I'll let you know when it's full, and maybe I'll even show it to you and let you read it. And then I'll have to find another one and hope that I can love it just as much.

Remember it now Ciosa?