WRITING in a diary is a good hobby but being too reserved with your true friends is making oneself lonely

It was a grim night in mid-winter. Everywhere silence prevailed like stillness in a dark graveyard. I felt extremely overwhelmed with grief and despair. Perhaps it was my sense of loneliness coupled with agony which drove me crazy.

I made up my mind to scribble down my unalloyed feelings in my diary. But, to my dismay, I couldn’t retrieve my dearest possession (diary) by my bedside table where I had left it the night before. I ransacked every nook and corner of the house, searched through the drawers and my bags but it was nowhere to be found.

Next day, at school, I underwent a sense of depression. My diary was part of my soul and with my diary gone, I felt quite forlorn and on the verge of tears.

My diary acted as the most trusted friend of mine, with whom I could share my feelings without fearing that they might be disclosed. I was extremely reserved about my personal life and hardly talked my heart out to my friends.

Many days passed, I felt overwhelmed with the happenings around me and felt the enormous need to pen down my thoughts as it appeared that the ocean of my feelings would gush out any minute; I felt so broken as if I had lost my true friend.

One day, being lost in my own thoughts, I was so oblivious of my immediate surroundings that I bumped into a friend of mine, Jane, who appeared out of the blue. She was the only reliable friend who stood by me through thick and thin. I was wonderstruck at the sight of my diary in her hands.

She frankly told me that she had taken it from my home. Though she didn’t read it she stole it to make me realise the importance of a friend in one’s life.

She said, “Writing in a diary is a good hobby but being too reserved with your true friends is making oneself lonely.”

That day, it dawned upon me for the first time that there can be no match between a material belonging (diary) and a true friend who is a constant source of inspiration and comfort.