If my blog could speak, it would smack me on my head for cheating on it . And, if my blog could do that, then my diary would definitely give me more than just an earful. I sleep next to it everyday yet am completely ignorant of it . The last thing I have jotted down in it is a nonchalant MOM for a work call I took a couple months ago. In my self defence, I started writing diary at an age of 10 thinking that my life should be chronicled . That it would be fun to read the events leading upto the very day I decide to 'publish' them . For a 10 year old me, my life was supposed to be adventurous enough to be a Novel ! But now when I go through the pages , I have a sense of melancholy . A distant longing for time lost . A feeble ache for people loved. Even when I am reading the pages with a smile on my face, I feel a sting in my heart . How many times have I picked up the pen but just could not gather anything worth to put in . When I am happy , I am out there being h
