There is a bookshelf in my bedroom. On the bottom shelf there I keep a small row of writing journals. Either three, or maybe four writing journals. I’m not really sure how many, as hardly any writing accounts between the sum of them — they simply just kind of sit there, fixed upright in their neat, tight little row. They look pretty nice like that. This seems to make for their only function, though, unfortunately, as far as my actual use of them goes.
Quality writing journals. Each one is leather-bound, with thick, accented pages. Honestly, very nice. Probably fairly expensive, though I would not know, I did dip them out of my father’s office — whenever the last time was I went up there, that is how I’d obtained them. I don’t think I would have bought them without needing them, although, when I did jack them, at that time, I was pretty certain I would use them.
In the long drawer of my writing desk, I keep one other writing journal, as well, in addition to the three or four which I mentioned. Like those ones, this too is pretty nice. Virtually just as nice. But this one I did buy myself however. And like the other ones, I don’t use it. I just don’t. I guess, that to say it short, when I say I’m writing, what I really mean, is that I’m typing. So, that is why these journals see no action.
Today I found three photographs, the three photographs you had said to me you hated, the three ones which I selected, the only three of you I found.
If you might recall, it was from me printing them out, with an inkjet printer — how, despite the photo paper I’d used, the ink would not absorb but spilled and smeared. You’d said, that what it was rendered looked like you were mangled, like, dripping in blood like you were a car crash victim, and contrasted with an inexplicable smile. Amazingly but not amazingly, this had been perhaps your most accurate description of a photo of yourself — at least as far as I have heard. Your ability for hyperbole will rarely fail to impress. In this particular instance though I did agree — the printing did not work.
They didn’t turn out, per se, but they were, though, interesting. I tucked away each photo between pages of that leather-bound journal. I’m not sure if you knew that. But had I not stumbled upon that item today, and, had I not actually opened it, for that matter, then I too would have failed to remember maybe anything about them.
I do suppose, that on one hand, I did successfully prove it is somewhat difficult to ignore a leather-bound journal — to jettison a pretentious artifact like that — it is not quite the same as, say, tossing out a fifty-cent spiral notebook, regardless of whether its existence is to persist unused, as you in fact did forewarn would become its fate.
Funny though, is I did agree with you, that random day at Billing’s Bookstore. Sure, I had still bought it, but I was pretty sure you were maybe on to something. Nostradamus would say BFD, but the prophecy proved correct. I’ve yet to scribble a note in that leather-bound journal.
“I have many leather-bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” Ah, yes, that was always fun to say, even after it was no longer funny. I always kept it perched atop that little blue bookshelf we had — it was more decoration than anything, I guess, if, even anything at all. Time kept passing and, less and less would I see it, albeit though it never moved.
Not unlike, a little row of trophies I’d kept on a dresser, in the years of my early youth, the leather-bound journal became barely less than a fixture, caking in dust. What words were never written, would speak less than what we know. The walls in that house would never talk.