I'm not retelling this, just translating as close to the sense of the original as possible. It's an additional comment in the diary, on the next page after it was interrupted on 22-VIII-1974..
Matter of fact I ask myself does it make sense to write again in this same place. As if I stole, from the one who will once read this, these two years. All the same I think this is me again - what I am so I am to self I write to self I desacrate.
First to clear it up with myself why I stopped writing a diary in the first place. It is true that I never quite knew why I wrote it because it wasn't clear to me. Even though I kept inventing various reasons for myself (there are wanderful things which shouldn't be forgotten, memory needs to be refreshed, own development needs to be tracked) I think there exist a good one to which I didn't confess too often; I needed it. And I wrote it while I needed it. These last fifty pages are a real rough job in comparison with earlier meticulous record of "important" events and contemplations. (I even think that somewhere among these 2000 pages there is a discussion on the subject of importance as such.) But then how was it near the end: simply there were too many events to write all of them down, and there also wasn't enough time to do that in a timely fashion. The records were always better when they were fresh because then I didn't have the time to distance myself and wisen and censor and rectify versions according to statements of others and whatever is done with history. These were real sincere remarks on events with full responsibility towards the reader.
In these two years a lot of it changed related to the diary. Put aside the eventts coming still with regular irregularity of spacing when after a couple of weeks of heavy fjaka* a few stormy days or one day comes full of everything and all. That is not the matter: had I sincerely put myself to the task I could do that too, timely. The matter is that I don't feel like writing. Simplified - why would I sit and write about love when (... 11 word...).
The other thing is the guarantee of secrecy and what to write. While I live with my parents I am at least sure that nobody reads this. The notebooks are laid in a vitrine, weakly camouflaged and really anyone can read them while I am away. I am not really sure that everyone would be full of understanding for what's written in them, which is why I will not write in Novi. One can't know even own roommate thoroughly. A diary is still an intimate little corner. I sometimes think such things that I dare not tell even to her, after three and a half years and understanding each so well.
One more thing remains: my attitude to events has changed too. I somehow don't expect much from the next day because I know it will surely disappoint me and bring me a big surprise only on the morning when I hope for none at all. So I am not sorry anymore if a good time fails; I know there were good times.
I simply know that I didn't miss out on much and that few things slipped through my hands, moreover I have (not literally but I have experienced & am experiencing) a lot of it which would put me into some wee minority.
And so I somehow came to the conclusion that it is not so important to fix the past in a diary. There - I can't fix the voice, can't the image - I can only note how I felt and that's all (what more could a song [do]**). And again, I record only what I noticed at the time, very rarely it happens that I catch some more.
I think it is clear to me too now why I don't write this kind of diary anymore. Now it's a question of what to do with it further on. Am I writing an epilogue this time, or maybe an editorial remark at the spot where the book abruptly ended and in general, why did I take to writing this after exactly two years?
The diaries remained untouched by pen until 19-IV-2019..
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* dalmatian expression. It is a feeling of the will to do nothing. A desire for an all-day siesta.
** a lyric from "Small song" by Arsen Dedić, the "Homo volans" album (13-I-1974., near bottom)