The Interesting Meditative Narrative of C. Nicholas Walker
"I have not written in the longest time..."
THESE WORDS SEEM to mark nearly every entry I place into my leather-bound journal. My soul became wretched rather recently with the solemn fear that this precious book had become lost to me. I searched where I last remember it being (the trunk of my car) and it was not there. I eventually found it buried under several layers of clothes and yellow anti-freeze containers in the back seat of this same vehicle, and although it was dirty and old there words inside had not faded, for it is a very durable book, double wrapped in leather with strips of that brown stuff that wrap around it and tie it closed. This wretched soul of mine began calling at 2 in the morning, so when I brought it into my house there was no one awake to see me. I sat down on my blue, mircosuede futon and opened the book.
It took me some time to untie the leather straps which held the book shut, and after several seconds of faliure I became frantic, finally working it open. I read. There were only about ten pages worth of writing that I had done as of yet, for I have only owned the book for, at best, two years and I write in it so infrequently. Yet when I do it seems to be important, and I enjoyed what I read of my own words from years past. One particular entry told the story of my first professional lecture on theoretical physics. The story was a very long one, though, so I eventually summarized the ending rather abruptly, only because I was physically very tired of writing in a cramped, slouched position over a rather small book I write in usually without a desk -- I enjoy the privacy found in my room, but have no surfaces to write on, lest I get onto my knees and write on my bed, which I cannot say I haven't done more than once.
I noticed that I write in my journal to be read. I do not write everyday events in it because I wish for it to be read by millions one day as a memoir to my childhood, a subject which people will soon become very interested in. I do not want the book to be filled with hundreds of pieces of useless information, but rather only have posts every several months, giving it a faster pace and something not as easily grown bored of. And even though the purpose of most journals is to place unfiltered thoughts onto paper, I still fear someone finding my book and knowing what I know...it is simply too large a risk for me to take, but I am changing my ways a little at a time.
THESE WORDS SEEM to mark nearly every entry I place into my leather-bound journal. My soul became wretched rather recently with the solemn fear that this precious book had become lost to me. I searched where I last remember it being (the trunk of my car) and it was not there. I eventually found it buried under several layers of clothes and yellow anti-freeze containers in the back seat of this same vehicle, and although it was dirty and old there words inside had not faded, for it is a very durable book, double wrapped in leather with strips of that brown stuff that wrap around it and tie it closed. This wretched soul of mine began calling at 2 in the morning, so when I brought it into my house there was no one awake to see me. I sat down on my blue, mircosuede futon and opened the book.
It took me some time to untie the leather straps which held the book shut, and after several seconds of faliure I became frantic, finally working it open. I read. There were only about ten pages worth of writing that I had done as of yet, for I have only owned the book for, at best, two years and I write in it so infrequently. Yet when I do it seems to be important, and I enjoyed what I read of my own words from years past. One particular entry told the story of my first professional lecture on theoretical physics. The story was a very long one, though, so I eventually summarized the ending rather abruptly, only because I was physically very tired of writing in a cramped, slouched position over a rather small book I write in usually without a desk -- I enjoy the privacy found in my room, but have no surfaces to write on, lest I get onto my knees and write on my bed, which I cannot say I haven't done more than once.
I noticed that I write in my journal to be read. I do not write everyday events in it because I wish for it to be read by millions one day as a memoir to my childhood, a subject which people will soon become very interested in. I do not want the book to be filled with hundreds of pieces of useless information, but rather only have posts every several months, giving it a faster pace and something not as easily grown bored of. And even though the purpose of most journals is to place unfiltered thoughts onto paper, I still fear someone finding my book and knowing what I know...it is simply too large a risk for me to take, but I am changing my ways a little at a time.
Nonetheless, I have been trying to write a little more in this journal as of late. I have the desire to place these unfiltered thoughts away before they become as lost to me as all my other un-used thoughts have become, thrown forever into the deep abyss of Lost Memory. The thought has even crossed my mind to place some of these entries online for others to read, but this is only because I enjoy sharing my writing, no matter how confidentially it may be written. If this ever becomes a real option fo rme, it will only become such after several years from now. At this time, I am more concerned with simply writing within the confines of that leather as well as working on my stageplay, for which I already have formulated a three-act synthesis....
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