Worn out diary of time

Some moments are just too beautiful to forget. Or let it wane with time. That's why we preserve the small, little moments of life, by scribbling it in our diaries, by posting blogs in the internet these days, by freezing the ethereal time in photographs, tapes and so on.

Here's a few words from the diary I long wrote in time. That time, I was just a young teenage boy. I barely remember what made think so. Here is the draft, that was almost on illegible.

"Everyone is just so happy, carefree and happy-go-lucky. I look around and see boys and girls, my age, many younger to me, walking all over the place, in their blue school uniforms, dirty shoes, rambling, playing, in the hot summer sun. I sit under the shed of a tree staring at these boys and girls, like a scarecrow, unblinkingly. There is so much to be happy about.

I know I did not bring my lunch today because my mom did not cook what I wanted to have. And I did not have any money to go to a shop and eat something. So here I sit and watch boys and girls play. But it is not the hunger that is making me feel awful. It is the anger I showed to my mom that is making me feel bitter. I will surely go home and say sorry to mom in the evening."

As I read, and re-read through the page from this old diary of mine, I found myself travelling back in time. It was a journey to the world we long lived and left behind as we grew up. Memories from those times are hard to remember unless some incidents of paramount importance have been fossilized in our minds. Perpetually. Like the terrible feeling of the first day in school, like the the guilty feeling of having forgotten to do the homework, or the nimble experience of never confessed to the person you had loved. I can barely remember any.

As i closed the wornout diary, I cherished, I had never said sorry to my mom that day.

To make up for it or rather overcome by the sensation, I called my mom yesterday evening and told about the particular incident. She did not remember the event but carried away by nostalgia, she went telling me how angry I was as a kid. I said sorry.

And just listen: She asked me, "are you drunk?"

Well, I think I was. Memories are sometimes intoxicating!