Dear diary, 
I pen down the notes of my follies and my heroic moments.  A recollection of a jouney that is just about to come to an end. The orgasm that once came with the freedom now threatens my sanity, with a question of what lies ahead im my path. A new journey is about to begin, yet it still is unclear what fate holds ahead. I pen down the decisions of a transiting naive girl, who came in a teenager, and now almost departs,  a full grown woman who knows not what a life holds ahead.

 
 
 
The life most of us face once we join our dream institutions of higher education to do courses that we hope will change our fates often begins as a straight road but soon diverts into a million roads and without knowing right or wrong, we often follow the wrong path. 

Broken pots can be fixed with gold

Dear Diary
Drugs, parties, and sex. Those are a wrapped early funeral gift that come with the freedom. Topics that the weak at heart find a tabboo. The best the elders will tell you is; never let a boy see your panties. It is bad manners.  But no, they never tell you the pain you feel when your virtue is stolen from the palm of your hands without consent. Worse still, they do not tell you of the sweetness of the forbidden fruit. There is that point of no return where all you want to do is dip your greedy hands into the jar and help yourself to more honey. But just like an oversized child the guilt that comes with the pleasure often overwhelms the soul and drains ones spirit.  You die inside as you wait for the physical ending; where you never will feel shame or guilt. 

Dear Diary.
For a fraction of a second, I felt like my choices were right. All the cards fit, my future would be complete. Staring back at little Mr. Perfect, I realize he played a game I wasn’t mastered enough to win. Well for a while there, it felt like I had all the cards at the palm of my hands. However, with the mirage of our future, I put my dreams on hold. Stopped applications for a passport with hopes of furthering my studies abroad. Despite the happiness, I noticed I was a convinience. Wanted but not needed. That stung worse than a slap. I gained the strength i needed to walk away. The journey was lonely and cold, but it was worth it.
In my pain, I turned to ink on my skin. A reminder of all all the pain I felt within. I look at my tattoos and remember, this too shall pass. I know I will never trust again. My heart is mine to treasure and hold. For if I let games be played anymore, I my never pen again.
 

He plays you for a fool girl, says all the things he knows you want to hear, then pounces and feeds on his prey before scouting his next target.  At first it hurts, and you hide behind alcohol, movies and fantasies. It doesnt kill the pain or fill the vacuum, it only expands the dark hole. But then,  you discover the church. A sanctuary where you can hide in. You no longer know if your intent is to worship, or to hide in His presence and seek some solace from your disoriented mind.

Dear Diary.
The church, it always the turning point, a chance for a new beginning.  For a moment there, they will call you a hypocrite. Your former life will fail to match the new you. The society will always have a word to say though, so go ahead with all that makes you happy. 
We run to the church because we realize, friends never last forever, and finding a real one in a million is like trying to hold on to vapour. Friends come and go, they are around for convinience, and run away when the heat becomes too much. Sucks, but its a life’s lesson.

Dear diary
Its my final journey.  Came in at eighteen, now leaving at twenty one. I see light at the end of the tunnel. I dont know if its the sunshine after my storm from my self-caused mistakes, or if it is a train that will knock me down to my final journey.  My questions, or at least most, remain unanswered. It comes with the territory of being confused and hopeless. The curse!!! 

Dear diary
Probably this is my final letter concerning my life. I came in with no experience in how one juggles work, church, fun and relationships, now, am reaping the fruits of my mistakes, trying to pick up the broken pieces. I came in without scratches, but I leave with a lot of lessons.
Ladies, gents alike; the freedom we gain in school, its not a chance to explore on sex and drugs. It is a moment to realize how tough life gets when we make no plans for the future. We no longer are children, we owe it to our future to get responsible. Sex is not a sport that will always put food on your table, someday you will grow old, and without savings or investments,  you become another wasted soul that had brains they did not use. 

When it comes to playing, lets leave it to sports in the field. Hearts are too fragile to be thrown around and kicked with balls. You mess around with so many hearts in an aim to prove your manhood to your peers, but for every tear shed, your generation will pay a price.

Last but not least, talk about it, share your story, touch a soul somewhere. For whatever you think you face alone, some other soul faces too. Talking cam save us from premature death. Talking frees our souls from the poison that builds within when we hide.  Let it out. Until one day you can tell your story with a smile on your face.

Goodnight diary. Tell that little boy this freedom will not last. 

#diary of a broken soul. 

11 replies
  1. Nduta
    Nduta says:

    Ooooohhh Damn!!!! This is incredible. Your way of putting in words what most of us can’t, is out of this world. The rawness of these piece is what touches my soul.

    Reply
  2. Sadika
    Sadika says:

    Wow… Talking frees our souls from the poison that builds within when we hide. Let it out. Until one day you can tell your story with a smile on your face. This diary is full of bitter truths.

    Reply
  3. Shadie
    Shadie says:

    “talk about it, share your story, touch a soul somewhere. For whatever you think you face alone, some other soul faces too” true indeed, finding someone u can confide in and talk to wen depressed is one of the best ways to conquer depression… Thanks for that great piece.

    Reply

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