Everything Counts

I was going through my personal diaries yesterday. All those lose pages i had written when i was probably 5 or 7 n a few well maintained diaries from last five years. Going through all those years felt so beautiful. It was as if i was living them all over again. All those years all those people. I realized how much I’ve changed since then. The way i used to think, the priorities i had, the way i understood life. Everything has changed.
But as i was flipping through the pages i noticed something really weird. I could actually, physically see those changes and the reasons behind them.
All those incidents which seemed unimportant back then are actually somehow responsible for making me what i am. Every single thing i wrote and in fact everything i did not write have contributed to my personality in some or the other way.

Every small bit, Every trivial situation, everything.
When people see me get to the core reasons behind every decision anyone makes. When they see me justifying every single action by every single person, they can’t see in me, a grandmother who told each and every story she knew with great detail about each character. They can’t listen that grandmother reciting the story in the most unprejudiced form and giving equal respect and importance to each character.

When they see me walking confidently through the school corridors, they can never make out how that best friend i met just a few years ago told me how important i was to her and built that up.
When they watch me paint a canvas with oil, they can’t see my sister (who’s apparently not a painter) teach me how to draw a perfect circle without any tools.

They can’t see how this girl can laugh on simply anything, without any reason, just because her that guy in her class she had a crush on was as good as a joker.

They can’t read those novels and articles and the comprehension passages in the exam n all those games n encyclopedias i loved when they read my blogs n long paras.

They don’t see how when i was 5, i didn’t go to school once and then had to write like 6 pages (which sound a great deal to a 5 year old) and how i was afraid to write them, when they see me not being able to complete any of my home works.

When they hear me talk about life and my understanding of it, they can’t see my dad and some of his friends discussing their life stories with each other.
When they tell me that i’m emotionally stable, they don’t know how i have an extremely sensitive friend who always trusted me and unraveled all her problems to me.

They can’t see that teacher in class 1 ask me questions about myself and my friends and hobbies, with the intentions to open me up when they tell me that i talk to much.

They don’t see that friend not talking anything about himself, letting it be a mystery when they see me learn how to be an individual.

Every eraser i lost, every slap I’ve had, every toy I’ve bought, every lie i ever said, every chocolate i stole, every hello I’ve ever said, every answer i gave, every question i asked, every attempt of mine to be creative, every song i listened to, every place I’ve been to, every holiday i took from school, every festival i ever celebrated, every strange thing on the road that i noticed, every news i watched, every deja vu of my life, every single moment i have lived in last 16 years 5 months and 23 days has made me what i am.