Dear Diary,

I wonder...

I wonder if you have ever felt burdened by my thoughts.

I wonder if you hate me for not solving my own problems.

I wonder if your patience with me has ever thinned.

I wonder if your life is as colourful as mine.

I wonder if you hate me for missing out on my joys and exaggerating my sorrows when I recount my day to you.

I wonder how you spend your days, sitting on my table, calmly and without any problems at all.

I wonder if you sleep at all, or stay up every night.

I wonder if you hate carrying the weight of my random thoughts.

I wonder if you fear of being unfinished when I have my final rest, and never being complete. But alas, what can I do, I myself am an unfinished work in progress.

I wonder if there is anybody who enquires about your own soul, because everyone is so busy in pouring out their souls to you.

I wonder if you have some sort of connection to your other mates, like we have phones and social media.

I wonder how you feel about being casted aside even though you are an important part of many people’s lives.

I wonder how you feel about me always focusing on my life, instead of yours.

I wonder how you feel when I ditch you for my phone.

I wonder if you ever feel like giving up on me. Maybe, you will one day, when your spine will come loose and no longer hold the pages strongly.

That brings me to an important question I have been meaning to ask you- How are you? Do you think your spine has become of age or you think you can support me yet!

You look in absolutely perfect condition to me, but I can’t say anything about the state of your heart.

They say that the things we boast the most about, are the things we know the least about. I have always boasted of writing you, when, in reality, I hardly know anything about your life.

You are the bearer of my pain, my miseries, my sorrows and my sadness. You are the collection of my joys, my precious moments and memories. You have always remained calm, whether I unleash my wrath into you, scratching those pages hardly with my pen or I spill my tears onto your pages. You have always been there for me and yet, here I am, knowing nothing about you.

17



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