The din goes on

Dug out a scrawny little diary tucked in deep, with a dozen and more pages yanked out. The spine, visible; the binder threads that once held them together, loose. The remnants of the written word were visible given the shoddy force with which those pages were torn out.

I knew it was my work, and began wondering what those pages contained that I didn't want to ever revisit? What musings or rantings did they hold? I was certain they reeked of a degree of melancholy. Why did I want to get rid of them so bad that that nobody could ever get hold of them? Not even me...

But do those memories ever really leave you? Aren't the most painful secrets always stored in recesses of one's mind? In the deep, dark dungeons that nobody can access... Sometimes not even you.

Yet, they are real, and they exist like the parasites on a tree. They never leave. They can be ignored in the hullabaloo of everyday life, but in solitude, they creep out of the trenches. The racket then rings in your ears. A racket that can't be ignored then. Until you find your salvation, your closure. It could take months, years, or even decades. The day it stops is the day it's been confronted. Until then, the din goes on.

The question remains: have I found mine?