"The world keeps asking me to be practical,
but my heart still writes poems
in the corners of math sheets."
Dear Diary,
They gave us a timetable today —
thick with subjects, deadlines,
and reminders that this is "the year that matters."
I stared at it like it was written in another language.
Or like it was a storm forecast
and I forgot my umbrella.
Final year feels like a race
I didn't ask to run.
The teachers are kinder,
but only in the way storm clouds are —
gentle before the lightning.
I tried to take notes in Biology,
but halfway through,
I was sketching a tree with birds in its hair.
I know I should care more about the carbon cycle
than how a tree might feel watching its leaves fall.
But my mind doesn't work in straight lines.
I think it dreams in spirals.
Then during Literature class,
I flipped through my notebook
and found a paper I didn't put there.
It was folded once,
tucked into the back,
quietly waiting.
A note.
From him.
"You don't have to stop dreaming to grow up.
Just learn to carry your dreams in your pockets
— like matches.
For when the world gets too cold."
I almost cried.
Because the world had gotten cold.
And here he was,
striking a match with his words.
So maybe I'll learn the formulas.
Maybe I'll memorize the facts.
But I'll also write poetry in the margins.
And whisper stories to my notebook.
And make room for both the dreamer and the student in me.
Because they are both me.
And maybe that's enough.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🕯️📖🌙