People say that when you're born you feel a mix of emotions; excitement, wonder, fear. I didn't feel the first two, only the last.
I was eighteen when I was born again, when I once again began to learn how to live. I woke up, from being asleep for nineteen days. And I couldn't remember anything. The people that stared at me, that spoke these words that I could not understand, the tubes that threaded life into me, the colours that surrounded me. I could not remember any of it. All I felt was fear, a feeling that coursed through my bones and though I did not know what it was, I did not like it.
Somehow I began to once again find my place in the world. People came to me, spoke with words that I began understand. I learnt the words quickly, I was told that it was because I already knew them, they just needed refreshing. But still every word was new to me, everything a new experience. I met my Mum and I met my Dad. My friends came to me once, and I tried to smile, tried to pretend that although I didn't remember them they still held a place in my mind. I was released from hospital, and went home. The room with the single bed spurred no thought on remembrance. And as I rifled through my things, I found the notebook with the purple cover, with five gold letters printed across its front, Diary.