Post by Adesanya Ayotola (@adesanya_ayotola)

THE DIARY OF THE HEART

They told us to keep records, to gather our yesterdays like precious coins, to press moments between the pages of memory as gardeners preserve flowers long after spring has died. Little did we know that the heart is no library. It was born a river, restless and moving, yet we built shelves within it, stacking every wound, every farewell, every promise that arrived dressed as forever and left disguised as a lesson.

The irony is profound, the pages we keep to remember often become the chains we cannot break.
A careless word from decades ago sleeps like dust in a forgotten chapter, until a passing wind awakens it and suddenly the old ache breathes again.

We become archivists of sorrow, curators of abandoned dreams, guardians of graves whose occupants time had already buried. The river becomes a swamp. What was meant to flow learns instead to collect and there, beneath the weight of unfinished stories, the heart bends under the burden of carrying seasons that have already passed.

Perhaps wisdom is not found in writing every memory in permanent ink but in knowing which pages deserve fire. For some moments were never meant to become monuments. Some were only travelers, sent to pass through us, leave their lesson and continue their journey.

The heart was not created to be a museum of yesterday. It was created to beat, to move, to release.
For memories are beautiful servants but terrible masters and the greatest tragedy is not that the heart remembers it is that sometimes, it remembers so well that it forgets how to live.

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