There was a time when writing used to be my passion, my diary never seemed to have enough of space to fill my words and thoughts, and now I see a beautiful covered diary kept at a corner of my table, staring back at me almost like a abandoned lover looking at me with teary eyes silently asking the question "why don't you touch me anymore?" I feel a pang of guilt inside me, for leaving all those beautiful pages empty.... do they reflect my own emptiness, that unfulfilled void ?
I should admite 'Yes' thats what those empty pages of diary, that's what those unwritten posts reflect -
An Empty Me.
And on ending note I have to confess one more thing to my diary "Dear diary, it isn't you I've abandoned, It's Me"