oh, if these pages could talk.
they’d tell the not-so-unique story of an eight-year-old sort-of drama queen (:D) trying to make sense of her life. what it must be to be eight again and to see the world through the eyes of that little girl: a simple, easy, mostly happy place with mom, dad, teachers, cousins, schoolmates, friends (and the occasional crush, of course.)
some might say it was a time of dewy-eyed naïveté; i choose to think it was the age of innocence, a time when the biggest problem in my world was when a friend wouldn’t pay attention to me, that episode in my life when an occasion like my first communion made me feel like the proudest, happiest person on the planet.
reading one entry after another and turning it page by page (somewhat fearfully in anticipation of a cringeworthy, makes-me-red-in-the-face post) was like travelling back to the past as memories long buried resurfaced and came to mind like it was yesterday. it honestly was like holding a mirror to my face because i realized a big chunk of my personality was formed during those years. i saw in my letters to “Di” (the name i gave my diary) the insecure girl who felt she never fit in and always thought she had to prove her worth, the girl who loved her parents so much that disappointing them made her feel like the world was crumbing around her, the girl who got elated over the simplest things, the girl who wanted so badly to know what it meant to fall and be in love, and the girl who always needed to find a way to express her feelings.
the last entry on my diary, my weary-looking childhood memorabilia, was dated 1996. it’s now 2012.
16 years later, a lot of things have changed. but some things we carry on: the medium might have had a technological upgrade and the audience a public one now, but i haven’t stopped finding ways to share what i think and feel.