Pages From My Journal

25th January - yet to clean my room

Dear diary,
There are days when I don't clean my room.

Days when my body really gives up after crying too much and fighting over pointless situations for longer than necessary.

Days when I need to console a friend and take the tough step of telling her something that hurts but is essential for her future security and happiness nonetheless.

A day that's been inconceivably long and even though I switch on the geyser to shower before crashing, I just can't.

I don't clean my room. I let go. I suppose that's signature me sometimes diary. It's like Chhavi to really let go of the Hard and heavy shit to just sit back in her uniform in bed and update her book.

Write.
Vent out.
Cry out.
Listen to old money on repeat.
Just let go.

Every day starts on a new note. A fresh thought. The incidental sun rays define when I wake up, the alarm song decides my mood for the first five minutes of the day. I don't carry the baggage of the previous day on my shoulders. A) coz I'm thin, so that's physically not possible. B) I have shit memory. C) I love myself enough to not let my heart be broken again and again over stupid shit. And yes that can make me an insensitive rock. But... it works. And at the close of that day. I'm touched and loved by the people I value. I feel loved, believed in , trusted. So.... it works.

Diary,
Too much has happened.
And yes I'm due to fill in the pages of my actual, physical, store 67 journal... I will.
Not today.

I'm yet to clean my room and shower, lay my bed like an OCD freak and spray tender romance. Pray and sleep.

I'm graduating tomorrow.

Love
Chhavi