the journal - h.s.

14

With a smirk playing on my lips I left the small living room after having patted him on the shoulder repeatedly. Sigh. It wasn’t easy being a comical genius when drunk.

The apartment wasn’t very big - it consisted of the living room I had just left, two smaller bedrooms, mini kitchen and a crappy bathroom. Therefore you wouldn’t expect me to be able to lose my way - but as the walls, floors well even the ceiling kept spinning around I somehow ended up in a room that definitely wasn’t the bathroom. There was no one in here and my eyes moved over the appealing single bed with a smile. If I could just sit down for a moment here in the silence. Just for a second. Carefully closing the door behind me I tiptoed in and seated on the edge of the unmade bed resting my head in my hands, while keeping my eyes tightly shut. Urgh. I guess this was the bedroom of Jenny’s roommate. The person hadn’t been home and practically I knew nothing about the roommate other than that.

Slowly my ears stopped ringing from the loud music and I started feeling a little better, the scent in here reminded me of a mix between mint, smoke and something pleasant I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I sat in darkness the sound of the music dimmed by the raw brick wall. Ever so slowly I came back to my senses, gratefully able to think even just a bit more clearly. Carefully I started by opening my eyes, staring down at the wooden floor and my black toms. I really had to buy some winter boots. A t-shirt was half hidden under the bed. It was white and I studied the holes in the fabric around the neck until I felt well enough to lift my head up and look around the entire room. Clothes lay scattered over the place. So did crumbled pieces of paper. In the corner stood a claret colored electric guitar - it definitely did not look new, but it fitted nicely in here somehow. With the bare brick wall where only a single Pink Floyd poster was hanging the place seemed authentic. I had always liked the cover art for that album; it was from the record called The Dark Side of the Moon.

My eyes travelled on taking in the messy room of what I concluded had to be a male resident. In the window stood one of those 20th century phonographs on which you could play vinyl records. There even was a small stack of such records leaning against the window frame next to it.  A working desk with yet another stack - this time books - and hanging above the desk a shelf stuffed with maybe ten… my eyes widened. I blinked a couple of times to make sure it wasn’t something I had merely imagined. Suddenly my mind was clear as crystal and I - slightly clumsy - got up from my spot crossing the room with two rapid steps.

There were about 10-15 smaller books - each and everyone bound in leather. The color shifted slightly from book to book. The majority of them were a familiar brown color though a couple of them were black. I noticed my hand was covering my mouth in shock. I spun around to look over the room yet again. Could it be?

And there on the opposite wall was a paper taped to the dark blue surface with the black words written in a handwriting I knew far too well.

To know even one life

has breathed easier

because you have lived.

This is to have succeeded.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

 

I was stumbling out of the room and into the small entré where I desperately grabbed my bag pulling out the journal. The music was roaring through my ears, making me wince as I had just gotten used to the lower level of noises. As I quickly closed the door shut behind me once again in the dark bedroom, I didn’t notice the sound of the front door of the apartment being opened.

I exhaled relieved by the silence, but I was far from calm as my eyes once again focused on the paper on the wall. The Pink Floyd poster. The guitar. And those damn journals. As I crossed the small space to stand in the middle of the room my eyes drifting over some of the papers laying on the floor I felt so out of place. The same handwriting meeting my gaze everywhere I looked and I practically couldn’t believe it, as I noticed some of the papers were even music sheets. I couldn’t catch my breath, as I lifted the journal to look at it. The journal I had found. Could it really be? Or had I officially gone utterly insane? I felt numb and chills were covering every inch of my body.

With shaky fingers I loosened the leather strap once again, eyes trailing over the words - this time wary. It couldn’t be. I quickly located that very quote, which had been the first thing I had read in this.

It was the exact same as the one on the wall. r.w.e. Ralph Waldo Emerson. It all fitted.

The music sheets. The poster. Even the mess resembled the journal in some wicked way.

My eyes read through a couple of passages again and again. Absent minded I seated on the edge of the bed too consumed with the words, which I desperately tried to link to owner of this room. I felt dizzy.

I closed my eyes tightly. Jenny’s roommate had visited her at the café. Forgotten this journal. And now I was in his damn bedroom. I stood up again feeling uneasy. I hadn’t seen this one coming and what followed next was something I couldn’t even have imagined myself, as I didn’t notice he silently entered.

a/n:

you guys. are. awesome. thank you so much xx it's really a joy writing this for you :)