A Page.

Konstantin Korovin. A Portrait of a Woma
Konstantin Korovin. A Portrait of a Woma

Something that looked like a page from a diary caught in the rain blew into my window and I had no time to remove it until later when it has already become dry and was hanging helplessly on the rear window of my car.

I was reluctant to throw it away although someone else’s handwriting made me uncomfortable, I do not like prying and even if I am not reading this page on purpose, it still feels like I am reading private thoughts that are not supposed to be read. At the same time leaving it in the rain, for people to step on and cars splash dirt on seemed unfair and cruel.

I folded it and put it in my pocket, got an evening newspaper and drove home through the rain. Again. I have not seen anything but rain today, I have not seen anything today.

I came home and tossed my keys on the table. I went through some routine rituals that accompany every evening and settling in my arm chair with some tea and unfolded the diary page. To my surprise it was typed up not handwritten, all of a sudden it made the situation less personal.  Honestly, deep down I was ready for some adventure but the typed up impersonal look of the page took some excitement out of it. In the corner of the page there was a list in pencil scribbled upside down, as I turned it around I saw that it was a shopping list. It read:

1 pumpkin

3 mice

2 crystal glasses

I turned the page over and started reading.

October, Rainy  

Dear Diary, 

I hate my name, I have no idea how many times I wrote about it but no amount of screaming helps. I hate my name.


I am not sure what to think about this beginning. Hating your name, what does it actually mean? Does it mean, you were called names as a kid, does your itself mean something ugly, does it have a terrible urban dictionary definition, all names have anyway. I read on.

I do not like my name for so many reasons and everyone thinks it is so nice and sweet and suits me. I wake up each morning, I love mornings and the first thing I think about it how much I hate my name. I tried changing it to Laura – it is a determined and hardworking name,it is far better than Lucia – too soft, better than Linda – too cold, better then Lola – too happy or Ludmila – too foreign. But none of these manes seem to stick. 

New name does not bring you new life, I am still who I am and my name is Love.


The page ended abruptly and I was looking at it like in a black void not sure what to think. So, your name is Love. Big deal! or maybe it is? Of course, I have no idea why she hates her name so, maybe teasing at school, maybe it is a family tradition, maybe some coincidence. I do not want to think about what I have just read but somehow the content of the page seeps into me and I feel sad. I went for a walk into the rain never to discover who the author of the page had been, I take the page with me and leave it on the bench. “I hate “Love”, –  is what the page essentially says, can one actually hate love? I look closely into people who pass me by, they look tired and bogged down with some thoughts of their own, they do not hate, they do not love, the are just passing by. I think of going back and picking up the page but I see the wind is swirling it in the air and it turns round and round becoming damp. Suddenly, I stop. What about the shopping list on the other side : pumpkins, mice crystal glasses… Nothing makes sense somehow and I go home, never to see that page again but its content never really leaves me. I sit down and start writing.

My name is Love. I live in a studio apartment. I do not know who my neighbors are and I put L.L on my door. I like when the sun shines through my curtain, tea and the colour of my hair. Even if I do not like my name, I try not to think about it too much. So, it is Love. Let people call me whatever they see fit. I do not mind, I have friends and I am easy- going. I started this diary long ago and then forgot all about it and now when I found it I was surprised how a person with a happy name like mine was able to write nasty things about myself. Diaries are not for that, they are for nice things and that’s how it is going to be from now on.

I reread the page and throw it out of the window, it floats in the air and the rain makes it heavier with every single drop. I feel like I sent a little bit of love in the cold grey world outside.

The rest of the week was rainy. I make plans to walk and read, refurnish my balcony and buy a potted plan and a new curtain. I look through my mail and see a brown envelope there with just my name on it. I opened it.

October , Sunny 

Dear Diary, 

They promise a sunny weekend after all the rain, isn’t it nice?! I wake up somehow I feel complete. In the world which is balancing between strong feelings – love or hate, it is very difficult to find your balance. We tend to lean towards extremes, we think golden middle is an unattainable cliche, we refuse to believe in magic. But every pumpkin wants to be a carriage even if for one night. 




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