It was perhaps the most unfortunate hour when my friend's diary was in my hands. The one for which I had longed but now for which I long that I hadn't touched it. Written were the words laced with love. Poems it contained, all very indicating. Wonderful were those lines, but who were they for?
Within me, was it that jealousy that was talking to tear off the pages and burn them but, one more page, one more page and one more page. And with every turning page I drowned in her writings, I touched the pages to feel the touch left by her, but again the voice from inside called out, this time louder. This is what she had in store for me? Was this the reason why she kept it from me all these years. Tight-lipped about these damned pages was she, and now do I hold them in my hands, caress them and try to feel her touch? Was this written by Fates? But who were these lines for?
The question seemed to urge me more to go through the lines, slowly written with care, as if literally meaning each and every word from deep inside. The words, while my eyes ran through them, were as if like a beautiful ride in the hills on a mild sunny day when the breeze as if slightly touching my cheeks. But who were the lines for, I thought for the third time, this time without getting angry but with a smile on my face.
"I wish not to leave you ever, but I cannot hold on for long as we are but in a circus showing our skills on the trapeze, and I aught to leave your hands, at least, that's what is scripted." I went on through the lines again, thought over the words again, but hardly could I make out what she meant. But yes it aught to bear a meaning quite significant. But who were these words for? I thought mildly for the fourth time.
Impatience grew with every word I read. Inquisitive I became to know who was it for. Suddenly it struck me hard. The priced possession, her Diary, which she never let go, never let me to read, in a parcel was delivered to me. At the start was a note that every page aught to be gone through one by one and patience be maintained. And so i continued, spending the whole night reading the words laced in love. No matter what she wrote in every page, indicated that she wants but cannot connect with someone. The someone she loves. Unsure of that someone's feelings, unconditionally does she love him, yet she cannot connect.
"I often dream of a race, of which I make the start fastest, but even before I can reach the finish line, my dream breaks, havn't ever seen myself touching the line." Suspense was growing as cold rush too ran down the spines. I again thought to myself, but who were these lines for? This time, fifth.
And there it was, at the end of the diary. I had been awake all night thus believing what I was seeing was becoming hard. My name was clearly written in bold letters. And the word prefixed made it clear that the whole diary was meant for me, and all these years she had but kept it away from me that she loves me. I didn't know how to react. Cry, laugh, or just sit. I had spent the most impatient night reading a diary, and now I know that all the love laced words were but for me. As the sun kissed the streets, marking a new day, I decided to visit her house, and give her a tight hug as my reply. But on the way I kept thinking as to why, in the whole of the diary she kept writing that she cannot but connect with me.
I pulled my car outside the house and something unusual struck my eyes. It was quite early for people to even stride out from their beds, and here in their lawn were some sixty odd people. I tried my way through them, in some distance however I could hear of some cries. I also overheard "cancer". I presumed a death. But who could it be. I followed the crying sound up to her bedroom and entered it when my eyes fell on the face of the mortal corpse and I could not stop myself from shouting in pain and anger-"I HATE YOU"
And now I so wish I never had the chance to read 'Her Diary'....
Within me, was it that jealousy that was talking to tear off the pages and burn them but, one more page, one more page and one more page. And with every turning page I drowned in her writings, I touched the pages to feel the touch left by her, but again the voice from inside called out, this time louder. This is what she had in store for me? Was this the reason why she kept it from me all these years. Tight-lipped about these damned pages was she, and now do I hold them in my hands, caress them and try to feel her touch? Was this written by Fates? But who were these lines for?
The question seemed to urge me more to go through the lines, slowly written with care, as if literally meaning each and every word from deep inside. The words, while my eyes ran through them, were as if like a beautiful ride in the hills on a mild sunny day when the breeze as if slightly touching my cheeks. But who were the lines for, I thought for the third time, this time without getting angry but with a smile on my face.
"I wish not to leave you ever, but I cannot hold on for long as we are but in a circus showing our skills on the trapeze, and I aught to leave your hands, at least, that's what is scripted." I went on through the lines again, thought over the words again, but hardly could I make out what she meant. But yes it aught to bear a meaning quite significant. But who were these words for? I thought mildly for the fourth time.
Impatience grew with every word I read. Inquisitive I became to know who was it for. Suddenly it struck me hard. The priced possession, her Diary, which she never let go, never let me to read, in a parcel was delivered to me. At the start was a note that every page aught to be gone through one by one and patience be maintained. And so i continued, spending the whole night reading the words laced in love. No matter what she wrote in every page, indicated that she wants but cannot connect with someone. The someone she loves. Unsure of that someone's feelings, unconditionally does she love him, yet she cannot connect.
"I often dream of a race, of which I make the start fastest, but even before I can reach the finish line, my dream breaks, havn't ever seen myself touching the line." Suspense was growing as cold rush too ran down the spines. I again thought to myself, but who were these lines for? This time, fifth.
And there it was, at the end of the diary. I had been awake all night thus believing what I was seeing was becoming hard. My name was clearly written in bold letters. And the word prefixed made it clear that the whole diary was meant for me, and all these years she had but kept it away from me that she loves me. I didn't know how to react. Cry, laugh, or just sit. I had spent the most impatient night reading a diary, and now I know that all the love laced words were but for me. As the sun kissed the streets, marking a new day, I decided to visit her house, and give her a tight hug as my reply. But on the way I kept thinking as to why, in the whole of the diary she kept writing that she cannot but connect with me.
I pulled my car outside the house and something unusual struck my eyes. It was quite early for people to even stride out from their beds, and here in their lawn were some sixty odd people. I tried my way through them, in some distance however I could hear of some cries. I also overheard "cancer". I presumed a death. But who could it be. I followed the crying sound up to her bedroom and entered it when my eyes fell on the face of the mortal corpse and I could not stop myself from shouting in pain and anger-"I HATE YOU"
And now I so wish I never had the chance to read 'Her Diary'....
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