About a Journal. Part 2.

The thoughts of a journal that is waiting to be picked up.

People would often ask if I was brand-new.

"Nah," he'd say as if I wasn't in the room.

Visitors were rare. I hoped this person would stay long enough for me to overhear who picked me up from the bookstore. Despite having lived in his apartment for the past few months, I knew very little of him.

I rested on a dusty bookshelf off to the left of his couch and not too far from his kitchen. I'd occasionally overhear the buzz of the television, or the beep of the microwave. But most often, silence. The living room was dimly lit. Not the "sexy time" kind of dimly lit. But more of the "eating that snack under the cover of darkness is less shameful" type of dimly lit.

He'd come and go throughout the day. Leave early and return late. I'd imagine myself trying to get his attention each time he'd pass. But he'd never notice. A lot like when you fail to get the waiter's attention while out at a restaurant. I was hungry for attention.

The urge would often strike to invite him out into the world so that we could explore and experience the riches of existence in hopes that he'd find inspiration out there. But how could I, a bound stack of blank paper, speak through empty pages? I felt muffled. I felt helpless. Life outside of the bookstore seemed more glamorous before I left.

I yearned to inspire with all of the words and punctuations that I knew I'd one day contain. I hungered to be held by the trembling hand whose heart raced in anticipation of the next page.

Despite an impeccable cover, my pages have begun to show my age. My cover is a glossy black leather while the edges of my off-white pages have begun to brown.

I inferred the idea of time from a clock across the room. I've lost count of all the hours, minutes and seconds. Fighting off bouts of dissolution becomes more burdensome as the second hand swings.

I recall one evening where I noticed a pen on the table across the room from the bookshelf. It struck me because it seemed like a little more than the average pen. It was much too distinguished to be used for grocery lists. It looked substantial. I bet I could break his window with it if I could figure out how to throw it.

He sat on his couch, watching Season 4, Episode 3 of NYPD Blue. I gave up trying to get his attention. Especially when that show was on. Detective Sipowicz is a fool. He means well. But he is a damn fool.

He pressed pause and sat in silence for a few minutes. There was much on his mind, I thought. He looked over at the bookshelf. I felt like he looked at me. But I didn't let myself get my hopes up. I figured he'd reach for some other book if he actually came in this direction.

He walked over to the table and picked up the pen. The stately pen that I admired a few days prior. I was hungry for the feeling of pen on paper. He continued walking towards me. I felt a rush of excitement. Did he finally have a story to tell? Is he ready to share his mind with me?

I'm ready.

I was lifted off of the bookshelf and placed on his lap. He wiped away the dust that had collected on my cover. On the first page on the top-center, he wrote his name. That's all. Just his name. It wasn't the grand tale I was hoping for, but it was a start.

At least then, I had begun.