I always had a hard time keeping a diary.
But sometimes randomly flip through the pages.
Rereading my own handwriting.
My pen bleeding red on the white clean paper.
My dreams restricted between the black horizontal monotonous lines.
I read the museum of my mind.
I see my happiness painted in polychrome and my sorrows, monochrome of course.
I feel the wearing edges of the paper.
I run my fingers over the abrasions of the leather hardcover.
Every time I read it, I feel different from how I have been or how I have grown.
I smell the chafing pages.
As I flip through, I run out of my colours and it is all blank again, unornamented white.
I deep inside hope some stranger would capsize through the pages of my life.
Going deep inside those empty pages.
Learning the intricacies of my universe.
And complete those empty whitewashed pages with colours that do not exist.