12th november, 2015, Paris.
That was the last entry in her diary, in a series of such leather bound volumes which lined an entire shelf in her bookcase. Her entire life, since the day they had been assigned “The diary of a young girl” in school, had been chronicled in the brown worn out, dog ear’d diaries, in the most brutal yet exquisite details.
Her first crush and it’s secrecy, the first time she saw the blood ooze out of her for five days and its discomfort,the first time she went to see a movie without her parent’s permission and its forbidden pleasure.
The hit of the first joint that she smoked with her friends and its high,the thrill of kissing the cute guy as a part of a truth or dare game, and its flush.
The first touch of foreign hands, on her breasts and its desperate craving, the first whisper of hot air against her clavicle and its chill down the spine.
The first night after the wedding and it’s passion, the first pregnancy and its excitement. The first stillborn, and the excruciating, unbearable pain.
Everything in the most brutal yet exquisite details. The diaries, happily condemned to bear the burden of secrecy and stories, conjectures and ramblings.
The words flowed out of her pen, with an ease and contentment which beffitted a swan in a pristine lake, in the green, bright countryside.
Yet, the experience of her first rock concert of Eagles of Death Metal remained unreported. As the Bataclan Theaters fell silent, so did she. Forever. And, contrary to her belief, the sword of human beings’ greed for power once again reigned supreme.