This is a personal story about diary. (Should diary not be personal?)
On the first day of the second millennium, Werther Armand decided to keep a diary. He was in love with a girl whom might not even know his loving her. It was his adolescent crisis and he was afraid of not recording his feelings this love would vanish without trace. Same as most puppy love stories, it ran away with time and became some vague torn images buried in some desert of our memory. Time is linear and it pushes our life forward. Werther Armand understands this cruelty very well and that is the reason for which his diary writing habit sustains. He loves his memory more than anything else. He wants his grand children to read him what dump things and stupidity he has done when Parkinson visits him. (Most importantly, the numerous women he has met and the nasty things they have done together.)
I am known to many of my friends for my strong memory. I do not think that it be a gift but it comes from my diary. I have been writing stories about myself and people I have met for 11 years. At the very beginning of this habit, I wrote intensely every day and every detail. Of course the frequency of entry has been much less often now as I grow up and I encounter different challenges in life. But, I will never stop writing about my life. My diary provides a shelter for my unhappiness and has replaced everything as well as everyone in my heart because it is the only one I can be nakedly honest with. Unfortunately, it is a human nature to unveil as many things as they can. Your closest person is always the most dangerous threat to the virginity of your diary:
Marguerite Karenina had always been curious and suspicious about what her boyfriend wrote in his diary. Would he be keeping a mistress without her knowing it? (Yes, women lack security?) On a restless cloudy day during the absence of Werther Armand, she looked everywhere in their bedroom and found his journal. She opened it with great excitement, but…
“You son of a bitch! You write it in French and you think you can hide that whore from me in the 21st century? You must have underestimated me!”
She switched on furiously her computer and spent the whole day on Google Translate putting in the letters carefully. Her research turned out to be disappointing because she realized Werther Armand had written more about pigeons than her. At the end of the day when Werther Armand returned home with a bunch of rose in his hands. Marguerite Karenina threw the journal in his face and walked away.
Werther Armand, “What! You read my journal? And you are angry with me now? Hey I am the victim, you did not respect my privacy, and I bought you rose…”
Thanks to the great invention of Google, couples no longer have any secret coded in another language. Perhaps I should learn and write in some language which Google Translate does not translate.
Bye for now, see you next blog!