What holds the deepest meaning to me is a simple yet profoundly significant item , my black diary notebook. This cherished diary has been a part of my life since my secondary school days, It was a thoughtful gift from my late father, a man who truly understood my passion for writing. He gave it to me not just as a notebook, but as a symbol of his belief in me , in my thoughts, my dreams, and my ability to express them.
From the very first moment I received it, that diary became more than just paper bound in leather; it became a sacred space for my thoughts, ideas, and inspirations. It was where I would pour out my reflections, capture important ideas, and jot down everything I found meaningful. As an introvert that loves to write rather than talk much.
I treated it like a treasure, the kind you don't just leave lying around. I kept it securely in my box, far away from curious hands. In fact, I was so protective of it that I didn’t even allow my siblings to touch it.
To me, that diary felt like the only real asset I had at the time . When I eventually gained admission into the university, the significance of that notebook grew. It continued to be my trusted companion, always close by but never open to others. My friends would often tease me, imitating my serious tone whenever I warned them not to touch it. They’d call it my “don’t touch book,” a phrase that stuck, and they knew better than to try.
Even now, the diary remains a constant reminder of where I started, who I am, and the love of a father who saw something special in me. It’s not just a book. It’s a legacy, a safe place, and a quiet witness to my journey through life.
Over the years, I have filled every single page of that black diary with my thoughts, reflections, and meaningful ideas. It became a personal archive of my growth. Since there were no empty pages left, I often found myself going back to reread what I had written. Sometimes it was to find inspiration, other times simply to reconnect with the emotions or memories tied to a specific time in my life. Revisiting those pages felt like revisiting an old friend who had walked through many seasons of life with me.
After my wedding, as I packed up my belongings in preparation for moving into my new home, the diary remained a top priority. I carefully tucked it in with my most valued possessions, knowing just how much it meant to me. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go as planned. In the midst of our transition, we encountered an unexpected mishap, a heavy downpour caught us off guard. Despite all efforts to protect our things, some of my belongings got soaked in the rain, and sadly, my beloved diary was among them.
I was heartbroken when I saw the damage. The once firm and crisp pages were now wrinkled, swollen, and fragile. I remember patiently laying it out in the sun day after day, hoping to restore it to its former state. Though I tried my best, it never quite returned to how it used to be. Some pages stuck together, others tore at the edges, and a few became unreadable altogether. The diary had physically changed, and it wore the scars of that moment in time.
To anyone else, it might now appear like an old, worn-out book that is battered, faded, and weathered by years of use and one unfortunate accident. But to me, it’s so much more than that. It holds the essence of my younger self, the quiet strength of my late father’s love, and the memories of all the dreams, fears, and thoughts I once confided within its pages. No other possession compares to it. That diary remains one of the most precious keepsakes I own. It’s a lasting, tangible memory of my father a legacy I treasure with all my heart.
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I'm a writer with a passion for storytelling, beautiful photography, and chasing everyday adventures.
I love capturing life in all of its colors either through words or visuals. I hope you discover something here that inspires or connects with you.
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