Confidential leaves

It's not exactly a diary. Not quite an organizer either. He merrily mixes up messy writings and combines life at all times.

Like Jack Sparrow's compass, my calendar guides me to what I want most in the world. Even though sometimes it makes me take long detours.

I've received it! A Moleskine weekly of a deep and creamy blue. I already love him.

I love this hard cover and these creamy pages, still untouched by my daily mockery. On the one hand, the week to organize his days. On the other, imperturbable lines to write what I like. On the cover, a familiar Charlie Brown shouting "Aaugh" reminds me that it has been several years since my thematic choice of agenda stopped on Snoopy. For no particular reason. Because I actually read more Calvin and Hobbes than Peanuts.
First of all, I must tell you that the diary is used to record appointments. No one knows why, but when it comes to events of the utmost importance, such as an annual scaling, it tends to be forgotten. Even when it's written down. Or maybe we're totally wrong about the date. Missed appointments are the prerogative of the stunned. Be forgiving, they don't do it on purpose.

We browse the pages and think about marking birthdays. The ones you remember by heart. They draw anchor points that punctuate a still uncertain but already marked future. They are reassuring, like caring guards. This is the dedicated space to write a unique word about this loved one. Griffing a drawing. Stick a Snoopy sticker. More than a reminder, it is a celebration of love that binds us to others.
Every once in a while, the diary is taunting us. Sketches, quotes, concert tickets, restaurant business cards are piled up. Selected samples of a singular and unique life. A less slender, more authentic Instagram profile. Secret. But something's missing.

Sitting on the terrace of a café, we have fun adding little annotations. We find ourselves thinking of this trip that we've never tried before. The time we didn't take for ourselves. We're writing it down.
"Permaculture internship in Sweden?"

The thoughts follow one another.

Little by little, we scribble, without realizing it, the list of our desires.
One day, without warning, this diary metamorphoses into a diary.
We think about the words. We disgust the evils.
It's the ritual of vulnerable days. The best is both the worst and the best. Shame, jubilation and vanity dissipate as more or less profound reflections emerge. At the end, all that remains are loose letters. We feel light to have laid down our haunting cogitations. A concentrate of us at the moment.

Sometimes you go back and read it again and rethink your life under the prism of the present. Witnessing the past and depositary of our hopes, the hidden meaning of these writings is revealed only to its author. Somewhere, this notebook is a magical object that retraces, at each reading, differently, our unbridled lives.

I believe that writing down my nonsense and daily reflections is a necessary breath. Some of them are boxing. Others compose songs or redo the world in cafés.
I write in my diary.