The Imperfect Empty Diaries

I wish I wrote something in it. I wish it wasn't so empty. I wish I wasn't so scared of imperfect things.

Why should it have mattered if my 7 year old self didn't write the perfect things (whatever that may have been) to write about in that Ben Ten diary my uncle gifted me. He should have just went for it, wrote something in it. Something silly & stupid, something a kid would write, something... Imperfect..

He should not have scrapped the pages out after what he wrote in the diary was deemed (by him alone) as imperfect.

I look at my old things, things from past, things from my childhood. It sends me to the land of joy and worriless life. To a time where "tomorrow" didn't matter, only "today" did, or maybe not even that. To a time where doraemon's new episode was the highlight of my day.

All those stuff bring joy to my eyes. But. I only wish my countless diaries, that I collected to write (perfect) stuff, weren't inkless, so dry, so void. I wish I had tried to write something and not hated every imperfections. I wish I wrote about my day. I wish I expressed my feelings in it. I wish I atleast scribbled in it.

The empty notebooks and diaries bring me regret. But what is this regret worth. I still have recent notebooks lying empty on my table, I even have this website left biting the dust, which are somehow magically supposed to have amazing ideas inked in them.

Imperfection, however far away it might be from perfection, is a million times further away from incompletion.

Some things aren't perfect for their extrinsic appearing quality, but for the work that was put behind them in the making.