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White Chocolate Mocha, laptop, the busy click-click of the keys. Some days, chai, warm blanket and pure serenity. Some days, raindrops and others, tears uncalled for. There is always more to write, some memory to recount and a new feeling to personify. Shift your focus to the chest of drawers by the bed, and open one of the them. Not the first one, that remains locked for a reason. The second one, yes. What do you see?

Notebooks, diaries, journals, notepads, photo albums, letters, a past.

A past that continues to be carried over to the present, to remember to never forget.

Open one of these diaries or notebooks to step into a fragment of the past. One that remains captive in this notebook, trapped within the confines of these pages. And remember, remember that this was significant. That it found its place in that notebook for a reason. That it was written to be read. Not all of it, but some of it.

Reduce the brightness, and focus. You have stumbled upon treasure, dear explorer. And the best part? You will never find the writer. She lost herself to her words: her sanctity, sanity and sovereignty. All that remains of her is this drawer filled to the brim with paper and words.

Uncensored. Unkempt.

Wild. Free.

Read it by the beach as the waves freed her, rescued her. Take these words to the cafés she went to all by herself, on a blind date with her lemon mint mojito. Drive these journals along the same paths that are described in them, and fly them to the countries where she found another piece of herself, making the compromise all the same. Take it by the hand, assuring her the whole time that you won’t let go. Oh, and. Don’t forget to drink chai at least five times a day, if not more. [Chamomile Tea works wonders too.]

Embrace and give in. She asks for nothing less, nothing more. She never did.

She never will.

 

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