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A Diary's Entry

You are the reader so you exist.....This story is another story that doesn't exist

PROLOGUE

I am never shoved into the cupboard. I am gently escorted to my designated place with great reverence. In fact, my place is the only clean spot in the entire cupboard. I am a VIP; there is no doubt about that. I have to be, after all the things she has confided in me, it is only right that I should be treated with respect.

The thing is that even as “The Journal” in her life I am disposable. I hold all her ranting, heartbreaks, rebellions, regrets, secrets, crushes, insecurities, fears, lies, truths, achievements and everything that ever happened to her to evoke an outburst. I am the sole witness to the events of her life. I cannot be disputed, even by her. As much as these things endear me to her they also make her hostile towards me. My existence holds power over her; it makes her vulnerable. I understand that one day she might regret ever confiding in me. I understand that there could be a time when she’ll set me ablaze and cry as fire becomes the reader and destroyer of my pages.

Just because I understand does not mean I am not walking on ice. This uncertainty that is my life has not made me love her. She gave existence to me but it was a matter in which I did not have a choice. I believe you all can relate, you all have parents and siblings; people who will always remain in your life. People you were never allowed to choose. She is also just there whether I like it or not.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Diary,

I lie here on the table; I look at myself in the mirror which is on the adjacent side of the sleek polished surface that has come to be the only place I visit besides the cupboard shelf.

My pages are old but sturdy. There is something dark and horrifying in me. I have been made into something. You won’t know that though, not immediately at least because I am disguised as a glittery, shimmery and pink teenage diary but it is not perfect; my disguise is just not. It is so typical that it is atypical. The bleakness bleeds from it like blood from a stab in the back. The facade works though because of how solitary I am.

Nobody really cares, not enough to peel of the flimsy layer of disguise and see the real me. They won’t because society dictates them to judge me and not help. Nobody really cares because there is nobody at all. I am afraid of judgment. The fear instilled in them is not one of their own volition. It is just too bad for me that they don’t realize it. The fear is not unreasonable; I cannot be normal when my life is so twisted. Do I even know normal? She has never taught me. My pages reek of evil how can my soul not? Valid. Let me then tell you how evil is born.

Evil is born from innocence in a negative environment. When innocence imitates what it perceives, it is you (society) who instead of correcting deem it evil. It fights against that judgment, rebels but then the lack of support twists its very being into evil. The more I try to separate myself from her the more I am dragged into her very being. In the beginning it was not so but you already know that don’t you.

I was as innocent as they come, naivety never really did suit me, and therefore, innocence stopped becoming me as well. She decided to take it away from me. It was brutally snatched away from me. I became a military strategist in her war against relationships. The ink from her pen injured me. Scars from a war I cannot be proud of. There is a wealth of knowledge in me; it has empowered me. A power which I cannot use because wisdom dictates I do not.

You know there was a time when I had been free, a stalemate between the wars. She had abandoned me then. I had been happy you know. I had almost thought she had given up on me. I had almost rejoiced. Since you’ve already guessed by my repeated usage of ‘almost’ that I did not in fact rejoice and she did not give up on me. She came back, and brought with her the melancholy suicidal entries.

And just like that I am left to wonder how sane I am. It is not I like I could identify it in myself. I act the way I am wired to act and I speak the way i am wired to speak. How should I know what I speak is normal when I speak only to please her? How should I know how I act is acceptable or not when they occur to suit her?

Sometimes it feels that I can find superficial happiness in the hands of a friend who does not have the leave to read me. I know I will be shunned when the content I bear is exposed.

The point I am trying to make is that had she not been supervising her friend, had she not been there. I would never have voluntarily showed you what I bear because I crave the happiness you give by just exploring my covers. I cannot risk it. I cannot wait for you to judge especially when I had no choice in what she wrote in me.

This reluctance has made me almost as twisted as her. I value freedom over honesty. How can I not when you value the past over the present? What reason have you left me to try when people around me mean more than me? Why should I try to fit in to your idiosyncrasy when you cannot accept a tad bit of mine? Why do you seek acceptance and love for your flaws when you reject and hate mine?

My flaws are different from yours. Who are you to decide that mine are greater and graver than yours?

I am not perfectly normal neither a goddess reincarnate but then who is? I am only human and so are you and I guess it is because we are human. She is a flaw to me; her very existence is the bane of my existence. I guess my humanity comes down to hypocrisy. I hate her so much I’ll never accept her; the crimes she has committed are greater than mine.

Who are you, who am I, and who are we all to ask for forgiveness when we cannot forgive?

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

EPILOGUE

I poured my heart out into this entry but what you do not realize is that this entry does not exist. It cannot logically ever exist for no one asks a diary how it feels just like it cannot ask anyone how they feel. A diary cannot write a diary. I can just lie, stationary until you decide otherwise, blank unless you write in me. There is nothing I can do of my own free accord for the lack of it.

Thus this must be dream. It must be yours or my dream. Its existence is not fiction but fantasy or something even more oblique.

You will forget it like you forget thousands of different things you read and see on the internet, it must be inevitable to forget, for that is what life dictates but, like I said this is an entry that does not exist and thus you couldn’t have read it.

How can you forget something you have never read? You are real though, you have a choice and can do things of your own volition.

Remember that even if you cannot remember this non-existent entry, my dearest reader.

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