23:53 10/24/95
Dear D.D.
I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment.
Bye!
And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living entity. A cherished friend who, when she died, was mourned.
For years, the entries centered themselves around one theme: the turmoil caused by love, or rather the lack thereof. I call what I wrote to Dear D.D. my legend, but even then, when I began penning my first heartfelt entries to this nonexistent friend, I knew that was not the case. Knew that what I would be chronicling in the pages of my small, hard-won diary to be nothing significant to future generations, nothing notable enough to receive an acclaim that would grant me the kind of immortality that I sought, that I still seek.
in each tender bud,
i see the prospective for greatness
that lies with the realization of our goals
and i weep for the endless universe of possibilities
that was secured us by those willing
to trade blessed life for equality and freedom.
now, we can be as the empires and the conquerors,
the poets and the playwrights,
the sculptors and the painters,
the inventors and the explorers,
we can be as ill-forgotten as they,
a mighty root in our tree of known kindred
and not merely a withering branch.
~ The Immortality of Intimates Reconciled, Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry March 19, 2008
Every so often, I read through the different incarnations which D.D. took, searching for a depth to the child that I was. I wouldn't call the girl I no longer am a vain creature, I have never believed myself beautiful (pretty, more like), but I was certainly shallow, certainly self-involved. I took notice of nothing other than the misery I felt for being denied my heart's one desire.
Love ceased to be an obsession in 2002 with the death of my father, and because of that D.D. died shortly after. In the years following her death, I have attempted to revive her, each attempt marked by the purchase of a journal. Done, perhaps, in the hope that whatever new skin I present her will entice her to stay. But, it seems that I am no necromancer, no alchemist to force such notion as life into sheaves of paper. Whatever magic it is that fashioned her, no longer exists.
18:34 
18:27 
14:35 
