the journal - h.s.

10

After another 15 minutes of laying comfortably still and relaxed in the sun, I decided the time of absolute ecstasy had passed for today. That was the thing with perfect moments - if they lasted for too long the perfection of them would dissolve. Therefore it wasn’t with sadness or regret that I got up from the matress and tiptoed my way across the sun filled room. The wooden floors slightly heated by the beams felt familiar under my bare feet. The roasted scent of brewing coffee and getting my hands on that unique leather journal again, wasn’t as good as my perfect moment in the sun - but it was good in a different kind of way, and something I looked forward to. 

 While my italian coffee maker was rumbling softly on the gas stover, I had pulled on an oversized t-shirt and prepared a bowl of oatmeal with raisins. Pulling my still bare legs up in the chair I looked at the journal in my hand.

In the daylight it seemed even more shabby, than I had first thought. Finishing my quick breakfast, I sat the bowl on the table and with my interest elsewhere I opened the journal.

Eagerly my gaze ran over the pages illuminated by the morning light. It was noticable easier to make out the handwritten words now compared to last night. Almost a little to careful I turned to the very first page, as if each paper page had been of the finest, most fragile silk materiale.

2013 -

→ Washington D.C, United States of America. January

These words were scribbled with a blue ink pen, but it had fainted noticeably compared to the next couple of written sentences.

→ H.U, United States of America. September

This sentence had been written at a different point - the ink looked more fresh and was a darker blue than the previous. It would make sense - if the Washington line had been written in January and the H.U. one in September. It was amazing to see how the handwriting had changed with time. The first line was written perfectly. Carefully. Maybe the owner had just received the journal at that time? Maybe it was the first thing he had written in this? Maybe it had been a Christmas gift of some sort? Maybe he had lived in D.C for long?

The last line stood out, as it was a pitch black color and the letters seemed more rushed. More cramped. The words, that were formed in this more desperate matter, were:

→ Chicago, United States of America. September.

 

In one of the corners was scribbled the title of a song, that I knew perfectly well. And in another several pens had been tried out in crazy rapidly made circles, probably in an attempt to see if they still worked. To get the ink flowing again. I kind of liked how the first page hadn’t been used for one thing only - but had been kept more casual. No strictness or rules. No specific order.

I guessed it was a timeline somehow, records of the places and which time the writer had been there. Maybe while keeping this journal? So he had started in Washington D.C - probably gotten hold of it there somehow and for real started using it there? Then moved on to H.U. later in the year. Whatever that was. H.U. This person definitely liked initials, which of course was a little problematic for me.

And lastly the person had arrived in Chicago. Since I couldn’t possibly come up with answers to my countless why, where and how - questions I continued to the next page.

On the second page a row of random names were listed - only first names though. Then over the next couple of pages were small notes scattered all over the place. Notes such as;

Movie titles; lost in translation. fightclub + a beautiful mind (russell c.)

Octō (lat.) - eight. Octave - eight. Octopus - eight arms. October - eighth month in roman cal.

Remember lock 21184

how can you describe the color red with words ?? (anger, love, blood, passion, dying sun.)

Then one day you find, ten years have got behind you. No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

Most of the things had been written with different colors of ink - clearly some things had been added later than others. I was pretty sure that last strophe about missing the starting gun was from some Pink Floyd song. So maybe the writer was in his sixties - late fifties? I couldn’t really imagine a younger guy noting down the latin word for ‘eight’ - and furthermore taking interest in a movie as ‘Lost in Translation’. So it was probably someone older. A little younger, than what I had imagined though.

It went on. With strange, unique and sometimes even very simple notes. Of events, dates, titles, names I couldn't really use to locate the owner. I quickly noticed a certain doodle appeared more than once; it looked as a paper plane and it was repeated on several pages. As if the writer had been doodling that very thing every time he stopped to think. Stopped to collect his thoughts.

The high pitched sound of my italian coffee maker announcing the coffee was ready, brought me out of the trance. As I jumped down from the high chair, putting the journal carefully on the kitchen table surface in the process I was frowning. This person was actually quite interesting. I had never thought about how words such as octopus and october were actually fairly close - and definitely not the reason behind. So the writer was thoughtful. Curious, thoughtful and had a need to keep track of things in life. Keep track of his thoughts and ideas. If I were to define a beautiful mind - then my myserious writer would most definitely fall under this definition with his peculiar observations and the charming mentality behind.

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