It was the morning of my 21st birthday, a typical Tuesday morning in autumn. I sunk in my seemingly gluey bed, shrunk under the softness of my duvet covers. My last two attempts to wake up were lost battles, robbing me of 10 minutes to get ready for my morning class, but blessing me with yet another 10 minutes to laze in my bed. When moments like this begin, I contemplate an awful lot. I pondered about who was smart enough to invent the snooze alarm, that genius deserves a Nobel prize! Me? I’m in dire need of a savour to help me overcome my snooze button addiction.
Cheerful knocks on the door rudely interrupted my nap. I force my half-awake-body out of bed then began the torture, as I walk to the door, rubbing my eyes on my way there. A hopeful attempt to fully drift out of sleep. I half open the door, the sight of all of my housemates surprised me. They sang me a birthday song in monotone, like a classical opera, which would’ve been world class had it not been for the occasional laughs in between their singing.
I stood in amazement, a smile crept to my face effortlessly. I don’t know what’s more flattering: their kind gesture complimented with a cake, a gift I was curiously anticipating to see, or the fact that they remembered my birthday. I stood lost for words, the cat caught my tongue as I struggled to express my gratitude. They left after heartfelt wishes and I opened the gift immediately after closing the door, inside was a pink diary.
Society has become sensitive, owning diary as a man is perceived as emasculating, even more so is the expression of feelings in writing. I’m fond of literature and writing. The diary has become a piece of me and a daily ritual, we’re two entities join in unison. It has a special place reserved in my heart, a home. Writing is food for thought, through my diary I’ve became obsessed with the brain. I’ve come to appreciate writing, the nature of its artistry. As opposed to WhatsApp statuses or Facebook posts, I find pleasure in playing around with words and writing them on paper. It feels more like “real life” rather than living in a digitally synthesized world. It’s a therapeutic feeling that can’t be compared or matched with anything unearthly.