One day, while segregating and rummaging old stuffs from the neglected box in the garage, I want to accidentally encounter with the long forgotten brown thick book. Dusting off with my wrinkled hand while coughing weakly, adjusting the rim of spectacles to see what it really is as my memory will be reluctant to cooperate with the passing time. With a shivering hand, I will open it and try to see the tiny letters written on it by wrinkling my nose and focusing my eyes to read it. Then with intensity and retrospection of the nostalgic feeling, I will read till I flip the last page of a diary with my cellulose forefinger.
I will laugh at grammatical and spelling errors I made while writing those hilarious feelings, feel foolish realizing the conversation between me and diary, I will feel every feelings I felt while writing every words by words, pages by pages. I will read and rejoice every bottled up fears, the prevailing anguish, a dragging idleness, an empowering agony and overwhelming ecstatic moment I wrote. I will be emotionally moved reading about the broken heart in broken English that will still manage to break my heart. I will feel color creeping when I read about the first crush I had. My eyes will swell with fat tears while going through the losses of beloved dear ones. Pages by pages, it will unfold my life through significant memories I was compelled to jot down.
Finally when I read the final page of my life at my final days, I will realize maintaining diary is one of the wisest decisions I took.