Empty Diary of Memories
A short story about a diary that became important just when I lost it. And never wrote in it.
It was Christmas 2003, I was nine years old, and under the Christmas tree I found a gift that wasn’t particularly spectacular, but was still special for me. It was a small diary with a hard leatherette cover.
It was a gift from my uncle, who wanted to encourage me to keep writing and creating. Although my early texts were not masterpieces, he saw potential in them and believed that writing would help me to develop a habit and navigate the many possibilities that life offered me. It took me some time to choose writing as my number one hobby, and later as my profession, but I’m very grateful for that journey. But that’s not what I wanted to write about.
I loved the diary; it literally enchanted me. Certain gifts simply had a power over me that I couldn’t influence. They simply connected to something inside me that I couldn’t explain. Before that, it was probably just the Lego Duplo garbage truck I got a few years before this event, which was my favorite toy for several years. Nothing else interested me. Something similar happened with the diary.
But how could an empty diary appeal to me? It was really nice, I have to admit, it felt good in my hands, the cover was pleasant to the touch… The reason for this is not important to delve into any further; what is important is what I did with it afterwards. How did I use it? This may surprise you. I didn’t do anything with it at all. I put it away in my most secret place so that it wouldn’t get lost or damaged, but in all that time I didn’t write a single line, word, or sentence in it. Why? It was precisely because I liked it so much that I didn’t want to “spoil” it with anything reckless.
I continued to write only on pieces of paper or in old notebooks, putting the diary aside for when something bigger came along.
Years passed, my interests and circumstances changed, but I never completely forgot about the diary or abandoned it. It was still there — in its place, quiet and blank, just as I had received it for Christmas years ago. Then my parents divorced, our childhood apartment was sold, and we had to move quickly to a smaller apartment that was two rooms smaller. I don’t know when or how it happened, but my favorite, never-written-in diary was lost for good at that time.
There was no point in searching for what happened and who was to blame, the result was the same anyway. My life remained without a diary.
But I still remember it to this day! I remember the day I got it; I remember its size, its blank pages, and its unusual faux-leather binding. I remember everything.
But one thing interests me. What would happen if I ever found that diary? Would I even recognize it? Wouldn’t it disappoint me with its dullness? And above all, would it still have the same value for me as it does now, when it is not here?
I guess I know the answer, although I hesitate to say it. But I’ll try anyway. It would most likely be a resounding ‘no’. Why? I might eventually use the diary, and even if not, it would simply get lost among the other things. And despite how it initially enchanted me, it would eventually lose its magic and I would forget about it.
That’s why I think that sometimes it’s not really bad (quite the opposite!) to lose or even throw away certain things. Especially if it’s something we have a strong emotional attachment to. And even though it sounds harsh, it’s precisely this event that can teach us what these things really mean to us and how important they are.
Of course, it’s not just about the things themselves. It’s not about them at all. It’s about our experiences with them and the meanings we have given them. And then it doesn’t matter whether we physically hold the thing or not. If it has a special meaning for us, we will remember it. And that is the most valuable thing.
After all, how else could I write about a lost diary?