I woke up this morning feeling spectacular.
I biked (with my wonderful bike) all the way to work.
All the while i had listened to the thrird and forth movement of the Pines of Rome by rehspegi.
So my morning was great.
I get to work, and what do I find laying on my counter?
That's right!
My journal!
I experianced a fit of rage that boiled through me to such a degree that I tipped over all of the protein bars and gum, so that they spilled out across the ground very much unlike a patient etherised upon a table.
Wow, Chase, settle down.
This is not like you.
I knew, I knew that he had read it.
That bastard Co-worker of mine.
Of course I was jumping to conclusions, but something real was happening.
Something unordinary to the extreme.
I was wounded, yes.
But more so I felt something from it all.
I felt his grimy hands all over the pages,
I felt his crtisizing eyes scanning my words like a virus.
I felt him laugh and chuckle as I held the journal myself.
It had happened, it was no longer MY journal, it was everybody elses.
So I trap myself inside the office to be alone, feeling like the beast in beauty and the beast.
I try to read words that I have written, but to think that anyone else (especially my co-worker) that has read it, makes my nerves tremble like a live-wire.
Should I say that it is my own fault for neglecting my journal, and that it is truely everyones desire to know deep things about another.
Yes.
Will I?
Well... "And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea."
I'll try.
3 comments:
All your cards on the table and that's it.
Nothing to hide, everyone who's paying attention knows what hand you're playing and you give up your spot if you decide to fold.
So maybe they find out you're not all Spades and Diamonds, that maybe you've got a joker and heart.
Bluffing will only gets you as far as the call and it's do or die then.
Everyone knows.
So, whatever you choose, you're in the game so why not go all in?
To "know deep things about another" seems to me virtually impossible. I think it quite likely that someone who reads your journal, where no doubt you try for honesty, will still fail to know who you are, because finally, we all manage to become strangers to ourselves to such a degree that communicating who we think we are is a guessing game even to us who do the writing in those journals.
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