Prologue
The Beginning
This is my dairy, given to me by. . .
to my ears that just sounded dull, lame, and unoriginal. It sounded completely unexciting. Though actually, it's the way my story starts out. So let's try this again.
This is my diary.
Moments scribbled down furiously, passionately, miserably, giddily, and a whirl of other crazy emotions on bland sheets of paper. At least that's the way Aunt Lolo described it the second she handed me the homemade journal, bound together by a tattered old leather cover she probably found lying around. She has a knack of taking something odd and original, and making it something absolutely gorgeous. . . unlike some other people.
Alright, unlike me.
She also has a knack of over-exaggerating
things. A simple sentence from her becomes dramatic, something that would come out of a famous movie or play. This morning I came downstairs and immediately noticed three hampers of clothes near the door, supporting a box of detergent, dryer sheets, and The Diary. Aunt Lolo commanded me to the laundry mat.
That's actually where I am right now.
I'm sitting on a white washing machine near the window where a nice cool breeze can reach me. Question.
Are we allowed to sit on the equipment? Well, I for one am not going to die of a heat stroke. My hair is pulled up into a bun, messily piled on top of my head after the first five minutes in here. It keeps the hair off the back of my neck so cool air can blow across it, which feels incredibly good against the heat.
The washer is on spin.
It makes a phoosh sound repeatedly and is louder to my ears because I'm sitting on top of it. I stare at The Diary sitting on the washer across myself as if we were a couple of cowboys in a Western shootout. The washer roared back to life after the soak cycle was over and The Diary fell flat on top, making me jump.
Not like I actually think its alive or anything.
In every story there is a beginning.
A person can't be born two years into his or her life. A rock star can't be famous without starting somewhere. No one can go through the process of picking themselves up when they haven't fallen down. That would be crazy.
And so, I knew that when writing
in The Diary, I basically had to start somewhere. That somewhere could possibly be the beginning. It would be an introduction because it wasn't really fair to The Diary if I lunged into my life without explanation. It would be confused and writing in The Diary would be, therefore, pointless. . . because if I was ever to have a story. I'd like to know where it all started.
This is leaving me with a problem
I can't take a pen and explain myself on paper. I don't have anything to write. What am I supposed to tell The Diary? Am I supposed to repeat what it says on my birth certificate? Am I supposed to go through my boring daily routine, day after day? Will it be offended if I confess that high school is far from the four best years of your life? Do I tell it my deepest fears and loves, my thoughts and my secrets? The things I should tell a normal human being, a friend?
The washing machine is on the spin cycle again.
I stare at The Diary, as if I could see through all its pages. It doesn't offer me an answer but just sits there. The black leather cover is plain and pages are an antique creamy white blank. I decided that The Diary needs a makeover, sort of the way I need one. Maybe after I finish with the clothes I'll go shopping and maybe I'll write in The Diary after I'm done.
After all, it's just a diary. Right?
. . .right?
Please see my c-box if you have any comments & send the constructive criticism in a message :)
