my words are methodically printed on the sheets of this moleskine. each letter constructed with exact precision. my secrets are engraved with permanance, my thoughts go unscrutinized by the covers, my aspirations are announced. sketches of the world around me lay within the boundaries of my journal. secret messages that i am unable to communicate are enscribed, the possibility that perhaps someday i will be able to mumble these messages to those they are written for remain intact. my moleskine is home to the inner catacombs of my mind. tumbling and spiraling thoughts, that tower to the highest point of thought that exists in my psyche. its waiting to be read…waiting to be explored, but as the author, i am not able to describe what lays beneath the red bound leather covers. many a times, i’ve imagined losing it, imagined losing my one constant companion. i’ve realized that if i did end up losing it, and someone found it, read it, and hypothesized about me, then they would, without a doubt, know a great deal more, about its author, than i do. and of course, i am the author. i know little about myself, about my inner-workings. i think i know what makes me tick, what makes me smile, but there are those instances where the sound of a cat hissing, instead of making my head whirl, makes me at ease. my pre-conceived knowledge about myself is erased constantly and rapidly. for days at a time, i think i know myself, but the next week i’m in a state of uncertainty.
recently the thoughts going through my mind have circumnavigated around the notion of losing my notebook intentionally. hoping the right person picks it up, takes it home, and reads it in their dimly lit room, surrounded by tokens of their past, by four walls regulating their lives, by menacing recycled air, and by the sounds of the world where absolute silence does not exist. this person, the finder of my moleskine, sorts through it, decodes my thoughts, my jargon, my wit, my truths. they know me without knowing me. a spark of interest is ignited, and they’re enticed to learn more. i lay at home in distress, wondering where, oh where could my moleskine be? who has it? and what do they know? but distressed is not the proper word. its a persona, a phase i go through. acting one way, when i really am not experiencing those emotions at all. my therapist tells me that i’m a romantic. she adds that she also believes i like expressing myself in a variety of ways- one of which is making myself appear mysterious. creating all these different layers for the “real me” to hide beneath. for different people, i appear in different ways. the “real me” is shown to the rare few, and never shown through actual conversation. the “real me” is expressed through minor actions, and through prose. those who have witnessed the “real me” can and shall attest to that.
the first time i tried to lose my moleskine was unsuccessful. i was sitting in a stuffy classroom, that was engulfed by the lights of the fluorescent gods. chatter was scattered sporadically throughout, knowledge was being hindered rather than facilitated. it was a dry day in the middle of october. the guiolltine windows were open, sounds from the construction company working on the building adjacent to the public establishment bellowed in, thus becoming the soundtrack to my day. my history teacher, a stout italian man, flipped through his notes anxiously. brow furrowed, mustache loitering, words were anything but omnipresent. my neighbor whispered to me, motioning at their almost blank quiz, suggesting i give them the answers. looking down unto my crisp piece of loose leaf paper, i too, hadn’t recorded the answers. my shoulders shrugged in an almost apologetic manner. my neighbor sighed disappointedly, and i began working promptly on the quiz. my right hand gripped my ticonderoga pencil loosely, and my left hand steadily kept my piece of paper in place. within a few minutes, after my hand was long tired, i refrained from finishing. only two questions were left. both of which i knew the answers to. what had caused this sudden refusal to work? the mocking sound of the analog clock, had appeared louder than it was supposed to. my eyes drifted up the wall to the clock which was adorned in a minimal way, what with just numbers, tick marks, and three hands. my teacher cleared his throat, unaware of my short pause in time, and i continued onward to complete my exam. shortly after i passed my quiz up the row along with two other quizzes that belonged to the folks sitting behind me. fifteen minutes remained in class, and my teacher announced that we could begin our homework assignment.
instead of reading our history text, i took out my moleskine, and began writing a poem that i had started the evening before. the ink flowing out of my pen worked at the same rate as the words emanating out of my mouth. everything fit together in a satisfactory manner, i felt as though i had just written a poem just as good as any of Longfellow’s, but of course that wasn’t the case. my serenity was interrupted by a fellow student inquiring what i was working on. i retored, that i wasn’t working on anything that would matter to him, and he chuckled nervously. his eyes surveyed my face, picking up hints of sorrow and hints of irritability. will you ever let me read your poetry? he inquired, either genuinely or mockingly (still to this day i am unable to say which) and to this i responded coldly that i don’t share my writing with just anyone. this comment of mine had hurt him, so much in fact, that he began to resemble a dog licking his wounds. i began to regret what i had said, but being the exemplary capricorn that i am, apologies were not in my nature. i began to pack up my stuff in my green shoulder bag, wedging my US History Book, published by Amsco, between my Honors Biology Book and my Honors Latin Prose Guides. My ticonderoga rested tucked behind my ear, and my mobile phone was checked, in regards of whether or not i had received a text message all day. i had not. on my desk remained my moleskine and my water bottle. the teacher shouted over the gossip of his pupils that the homework was due next class and to make sure to review for the section test. no one but me heard his announcement. he began to add something else, but the bell cut him off. the majority of the class flowed out of his room, but a few remained. i remained inside, solely to put my jacket on, and to avoid the rush. others remained inside to discuss their mediocre grades, and explain why they were unable to pass in the homework due next class. i lauged at what i heard, but i gathered my bag and water bottle and began to leave the room. i subconciously knew that my journal was not on my person, but, i suppose i didn’t want to admit that to myself at the time. i walked through the curved corridor, making my way to the main stairs. the hallways were deserted, partially because it was a friday, and partially because school was over. scrap pieces of paper, and graded assignments were littered across the floor- very typical for my high school. as i started to make my way down the main corridor, to the main set of stairs, i heard the pitter patter of feet gaining speed and proximity to where i was currently located. the hindered breath was resounded about the hallway, and i turned around, all to find the boy, who had inquired about my poetry, running towards me. in his hand, was my moleskine. i had hoped, secretly, that he would have found it, brought it home, read it, and delievered it to me on monday. hey, you forgot your notebook in class he huffed, mustering up enough strength to speak. i asked if he had looked at it, while i grabbed it out of his freckle dotted hand. he shook his head no, and added that he respected what i told him, about only a select few are able to read my work. i looked at him bewildered as to why he hadn’t read what i wrote. why he had obeyed and listened to what i said. he smiled at me, told me to have a good weekend, and then turned and sauntered away. i stood in the hallway, looking curiously at where he had been standing until a janitor asked me if i was alright.