When I started my first diary I used a beautiful chinese blank book. I still remember the red and gold and black and the case it came with. I loved it.
Well, until my sister went into my room, looked around - found it and told my mother everything she had read in it (good was I had only written for three days) laughing out loud about the things I had written.
Now I miss having no proof for my memories. Am I remembering everything right? Or do I get everything wrong?
Books were during that part of time my only room for privacy. I had a room for my own since the age of 7, but I had to let the door open during the day. All thirty minutes my mother or my granny payed me visits to look if I did learn and behave well.
I am happy I learned to love books during that time - I still love to open a book frish from the press - the smell, the places, the people....
But writing? It took a long time until I started writing again - here in 2008.
I am still sometimes not sure if I get the words and meanings right - if if get the so called truth right.
I know I can not capture a whole moment in writing - it will alltimes be only a part of the puzzle I can write about.
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