Diary

``With eyes down low
The cold winds blow
My heart to you, my love''

Monty penned that sentimentally silly poem in his diary and stared at it for a moment, his mind elsewhere thinking about she who had inspired his little ditty. She was far away, physically, and he knew not if she was also far away, emotionally. Such things were hard to tell, given the way things are at that moment.

He sighed and paused his thoughts of the future. Putting down his fountain pen, he picked up the diary and started flipping it back to beginning and started to read some fragments of it.

The diary. Monty wasn't really a diary keeper, but it had become a habit of sorts in his mundane life, to write down whatever he was thinking at the moment within it when he so desired. Words that were kept in the diary were like valuable objects kept in a safe deposit box---it frees up the mind to think of other things while the precious thoughts and memories are kept permanently on paper.

It was an old-ish thing, that diary was. She had given it to him on his birthday nearly two years ago. They were together then, really close, really... intimate. They knew each other's thoughts, each other's ideas, each other's secrets, each other's desires. And she was a diarist too, suggesting that he kept one as well to help free his mind from the vagaries of life.

He had laughed it off, of course, seeing no reason to begin what he felt was an exercise in anachronism in the current era of fast Internet publishing. Nonetheless, when she gave him the book for use as a diary, he kept it, but didn't start to write in it.

That is, till about a year ago.

That was the day when she decided to go to an overseas college to get her post graduate degree. He couldn't go with her due to work commitments---she had said that the programme would last roughly two years, and that he could go visit her any time.

But times were starting to get hard, and air tickets were starting to become dear. He missed her something awful, and so, with great reluctance, Monty picked up the gift of the book that she had given to him before and placed it on the table, opening the covers and started writing on the first page.

A year later, he was still at it, writing his thoughts and emotions about her in it. They kept in touch still, but she wasn't much of a technology person, and the letters that he had written her before had so far went unanswered. Deep pangs of sadness hit Monty ever so often, and sometimes he wished he could just fly over to surprise her.

But he was afraid of what he might see once he got there.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-27 18:44:33)