Being the writer that I am, I have many notepads, books, pens and a whole cupboard filled with diaries through-out my life. I am forever being mocked, and continue to this day being known for my stationery filled handbag – you never know when or where my next idea will strike, and I like to be prepared for all eventualities. The only discrediting thing here is that whilst I have a vivid and long record of my life up until this point. Through the countless number of pages about heartache, disappointments, dreams, and a lot of other exciting events. I am troubled that I rarely go back and revisit them, which probably tells me that I write to process my thoughts; but still, I am fully aware of gems that I will hold in these very pages. There must be at least five stories about boys that I’ve had crushes on, and the drama that followed when the boy didn’t like me back, or I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.
Come on, we’ve all had them!My point in sharing such a cringing fact is that I know there are lessons to be learnt from these pages, and I know that I have made similar mistakes before, which at the time seemed like a great idea… I just don’t understand why I don’t go back and read them.
Anyway, I digress. The reason for tonight’s post is to beg the question that whilst I seem to have an exceptional memory that doesn’t need reminding of past events, or lessons. There is the odd moment in time when I flick back through the overflowing pages of my pink papered diary – nearing the end of this month’s book – to notice only the change of pen colour, and sporadic re-occurrence of a certain someone who appears to have found his way into my diary? Huh? I’m shocked, and intrigued… and a little horrified! What does this mean? How on earth could he have slipped my security tight radar, and made it into this treasured book? Alarm bells ring, as I look up in shock. This… This must be monitored!