I hardly wrote something about myself anymore. If you read this blog, you may find almost no post talking about my daily life. Maybe some of you might have known that I used to write on a diary. A real diary not an online journal one. All my happiness, sad moments, or even my angers were poured on every page of a book. The book is called diary because it recorded the daily life of mine. When it is empty it is no difference with a normal notebook with "diary" title in front of some of the books' cover.
Everyday, everything I was in the mood, I took my pen and wrote a story about what has happened to me. Then, I kept the book in the place that I considered none knew. However, there was always someone who was curious about what I had written. When I was away, that person sneaked in my room and tried to find my diary. It was true that I wrote something not good of that person because I was angry. The story was recorded because I just didn't want to release my anger to her.... Anyway in the end the person found my diary and read it through every story I wrote especially that divulged her name. The day after she stopped talking to me in sudden, looked at me with suspicious look and I knew nothing but her hatred. Until one day her mother told my mom that she had read my diary and that explained anything that happened between that person and me.
So much sore just because some pieces of stories on the pages. Even worse, the stories were something that had already been in the past. Since that day...I stop writing on my diary again.
