Diary Everyday Life Novels & Stories

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

Her habit of diary writing however had taken a backseat since she had forgotten her precious diary at home in Las Vegas. But that didn't deter her from writing. Every day she wrote a little in a new diary. It wasn't about her everyday affairs like she used to write before. It was the tragic love story of her and Weston. Every day she took out time and penned down the words which came straight from her heart. It was her solace, her comfort.

Flashback Continues Daisy’s P.O.V. I wake up early in the morning. Today is Sunday. No office, no work. I love Sundays. After taking a quick shower, I come to the balcony to get some fresh air and share my thoughts with my diary. The cool morning breeze brushes against my skin as I sit on the lounger, the diary open in front of me. It’s my habit to pour out my thoughts and feelings onto its pages, a way to deal with my messed-up thoughts.

My diary helped me grow personally and captured events that passed by instantly. I desiderated to pen down everything that day. I wanted my diary to have all the precious moments inked in that. That day I experienced things that I could not share with anybody. As I had no one with whom I could do so. I wanted to write whatever I felt like, freely and without outside judgment or criticism.

Like You gave me mine. Dear Diary, Thank you for accompanying me this far. Thank you for being willing to accept all my complaints. And thank you for accompanying the lonely years of my life. (You can read Abigail's story in the book titled "Wedding Agreement")

So I picked it up and sat on the bed. This was one of the many habits which make me a nerd. Maybe no one maintains a diary nowadays. Everybody has become so acquainted with technology that they don't need pen and paper. but I on the other hand still tells my everyday story in my diary. May because I never had a friend to share my feelings with. So I write them down. And today I felt like meeting my notebook friend. My only best friend. dear diary, it's me again. I moved to Italy finally. I moved on finally as you know I've been trying to summon up that courage for the past year and I did it finally.

Let up from screwing with me. And as I did anytime I was feeling agitated, or just drained, I wrote in Ayla: my diary. My hand sought her, and when I held her in my grip I unbuttoned the latch securing her pages. Pages of my sweat, tears, joy; and pretty much my whole life. I passed my fingers over the beautifully old pages, my hand flipping through phases of my life. My fingers halted on a page. It was peppered with numerous love emoticons, XOs and exclamation marks.

Dear diary, Sorry, it's been so long. I haven’t remotely written anything for years. You used to be my secret safe where I could lock away my deepest desires and regrets. I could be completely honest, and you won’t judge me. But then since I moved to New York, I haven’t been myself. Somehow my life lost its purpose, and I did things just for the sake of doing it. Scratch that. I did things and lived my life because I owe it all to certain two persons whom I learned to love later in my life. And that I didn’t want to admit to anyone… not even to you. Because that is not living… it’s just existing. No human on earth wants to admit that they are nothing in this world… not even to themselves inc

Sierra's POV Everything is overwhelming. Sitting in my room, I examine every little detail: a desk with a spinning chair, a big bed that's way too big for just one person, and a big bathroom with a big bath that would swallow me. I sit on the floor because I don't want to get the nice new chair filthy with whatever is on my clothes and body and I look at what's in front of me. Paper. Pen. Thoughts. Dear diary. Do I even call it a diary or is it dear paper? Either way, it doesn't matter.

The kitchen counter and the pasta and the drawings and the lamp and the sofa and the books. He thought about how those ordinary days were the story. Not the frame for the dramatic moments. The story itself. The continuous choosing, the daily inhabiting, the practice of attention that accumulated into a life. He thought about what he would tell the person writing it down, if anyone were writing it down.