The shoebox under my bed

I re-read my diaries once again. Never really kept a diary until I was in university. Wrote in it when I was lonely. To me that was therapeutic. I seldom record happy entries as i rather share my happiness with people around me. Happiness that you cant share is not happiness at all. It is depressing when there is noone to share your happiness.

I read. Read about how i started to lose interest in food. about my declining weight. One whole book of sorrow. Warm tears not because i mourn for what is lost, but because i pity myself, then. Entries that struggled with the cruel truth, entries that put on a brave front for no one but myself. How pitiful is that.

Towards the end of the book, the entries got happier, the writer older. I've learnt to forget, learnt to let go. The chapter of my life ended with the pages of that book.

farewell.
you may stand right in front of me, but may i never see you again.