A green moleskin reverberates in the chest pocket of my jacket. From the corners of its walls up the bridges of its binding, black soot crawls on its green plains, walking unnoticed. It is terribly old. Like hopeless hands clinging to pictures pasted on their plain damp walls, my diary puts up a brave face in its waning life. In its slow death and decay, it assumes the age-old belief that no one notices its wounds, that its pain and heartbreak—lie in disguise, only to realise that it’s truly not a phenomenal task to uncover wounds concealed. Impervious though wounds…