Dear Kalsangi
The whole diary thing feels new, despite having encountered this several times; it's like I'm feeling my way through the dark. Yes, lately, it has been dark.
This has occurred several times over the course of growing up. I have collected a thousand thoughts in these bound leaves, which are now collecting dust both on the shelves of my room and in the deep recesses of my mind. But last night I decided to rummage through my old notes – a ritual before I delve back into the present world.
I tried to unearth one of the dozens I have as an attempt to lull myself to sleep (I have been stubborn lately). Upon opening the journal, memories flooded me, but it bore feelings none of which I was expecting. As there had been several revisitations of my writing after a long duration of negligence, so too had there been several attempts to blow the dust off the covers, breathing life back for the dormant memories to be replayed.
I would delight in the sights and sounds only I could witness in the words and sentences that lifted off the pages. Oftentimes it would blanket me with nostalgia, a poignant but calming and soothing honey-like cocoon spun from images of my halcyon days in Polomolok. The deep blue hues of Mount Matutum, who watched over the region in all its might and majestic beauty. Whispers of the roots of my small monggo seedlings through the loam soil. The scent of Norfolk pine wafting in the 24 degrees Celsius air and tall hundred-year-old trees that lined the ballpark beside B street. Secret corridors of uninhabited guest houses I ran through with my childhood best friend, and the haunting mist that draped over the village when dusk fell.
Amidst all the scenery, the film concluded with the tender heartbreak I felt when I learned of our departure. A farewell after 13 years of being a Polomolok girl.
Slumber alighted and I closed the diary and drifted off to sleep, in my room, where I was surrounded by the very items that have remained in the boxes – unmoved, untouched, hidden, since we left that place.