I stood on the edge and looked down at the chasm below. It wasn't really a chasm, just the narrow gulf between my roof and that of my neighbour's. But it was just wide enough for me to pretend it was a chasm and that served my purposes. Night was falling. The stars were mostly hidden by the smoke filled residue of a busy day. A perfumed breeze blew into my face. I breathed it in – the myriad scents of the huddled masses below hurrying home for the last supper. I wriggled my naked toes to get a better grip on the ledge I was standing on. The wind was calling out to me ....to fly... fly higher and higher until I could finally see the stars. I inched closer to the edge...
“..And the truth shall set you free”
I found the truth in an old dog eared red leather diary I found hiding in a dusty corner of our attic a week ago. I keep saying our, we, us and all those other plural pronouns. I guess I have yet to come to terms with the fracture in my life. I was watching this show where a band was being interviewed. One of those guys said something that struck me...
“When people enter our lives, they do so through tiny little holes that can barely be seen. But when they leave, they leave behind these scars, these big, gaping holes in our backs so to speak. We'd like to call them exit wounds.”
It really stuck with me that analogy. But anyway, I was talking about the diary wasn't I?
The funny thing was that it didn't belong to either one of us. Again that plural. Old habits will die hard. As I was saying, the diary kind of sprung up out of nowhere. It most definitely did not come with the apartment because when we ...no, I had been looking at the rooms with the agent, I had stumbled onto the attic by myself and I clearly remember that it was bare as a sacrificial virgin.
Now, before I say anything else I have to confess something. I watch a lot of movies. Sometimes it annoys my friends but they usually tolerate it because it's a great party trick. Everybody loves that crazy piece of modern art hanging on the wall that tells your friends how classy and sophisticated you are - I looked good hanging on walls. Movies comforted me because unlike life, it had structure, rules and a defined narrative. Life was a mess like too many crayons and pastels thrown in at once.
The reason I confessed this is to help you understand why I reacted the way I did to the contents of the diary. At first glance, it seemed like some half-assed tribute to Matrix. There were two full pages on the perception of reality and how everything around me was a lie. I was half expecting to read something about blue and red pills. I lobbed the diary from the comfort of my bed to a perfect drop in the waste basket across the room.
The next day, I found that damn diary again swaddled like a new born babe inside my morning paper. Now this really unnerved me. I had seen enough of the Paranormal Activity franchise to know how this story ended. But I was a victim to my own sensibilities. I could almost hear the viewer mouth the horror movie staple “Don't do it” as I picked up the book and flicked through the pages.
You ever get that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you stare at something long enough that you cannot remove your gaze from it? There is a single moment of horrible awareness when you realize that you are hynotised and inspite of your best effort to look away, you are drawn in inexorably like looking into the depths of a black hole. It was the same with the diary.
The red leather cover felt so comfortable, as if I held it so many times before. I knew how each sentence was going to end, where the commas would fall, where the periods would halt. It felt like I was reading and writing the lines in the diary simultaneously. I felt nauseated but unable to throw up. I tasted bitterness in my mouth but still I couldn't stop.
