Few days back I tore my diaries – the ones I had maintained for past six or seven years. It was difficult and after lots of contemplation and flipping through the chapters of my life documented in all those diaries, I finally gathered strength to tier them into bits of pieces.   It was huge, the collection of memories which the mind had decided to forget but the heart had decided to preserve.
 
I wonder if they were memories at all. Had they been memories they would have been with me, within me. I need not document them for the future reference. At the most they were the reflections of my constantly changing thoughts and emotions based on those erratic moods, a punching bag for my emotions.

We live long, for years together. And in this long life in the name of memories what we collect around us is the clutter of emotions, thoughts, and ideologies. Despite knowing the eternal fact of mutability we insist on preserving. Half of human effort is towards preservation. It’s an on going struggle for durability, permanency and eternity. 

The last minute flipping through those pages showed me without the mask and those pages also showed me the glimpses of all the masks I have been wearing. It is so difficult to be true, even to our own selves. I could see in those pages how consiously I had avoided writing so many of my feelings. How intelligently i was hiding parts of my personality, even in those pages which were mine.

I could see in those pages the stagnated flow of my thoughts - stinking like stagnated water in the gutter. Nothing fresh was added to flush the effluents out. I could see the same names, same complains, same doubts, and the same old fears. Was I growing?

Those pages showed the pattern of my life. A life that wanted to hold on. The one that feared seperation, one that feared the unknown, the unseen. It wished to hold on to its stagnation while everything around moved. It was trying to find solace in the familiar.

There was no fresh perspective of looking at life. There was nothing new to write about but still I filled in pages after pages. Mind was stuck. Pages after pages reflected just one thought process.

While I tore apart my past I allowed the fresh breeze to fill in my mind and heart. I acknowledged the change taking place within me. Today I do not need a punching bag. I do not see the need to hold on my own thoughts which keep changing with every passing moment. How stubborn I was trying to hold on to the events, the memories, the past and crying about what happened to Jyoti who was " Happy go lucky". Not feeling the metomorphosis that Jyoti was bound to go through with the happenings of the life.

Today the effort is not towards storing memories, but experiencing the wave of fresh breeze that touches my soul and leaves silently.