The young man wanted to lay his head down very much, but it was as if his body was refusing him to do so. He could only sit silently and stare downward at what he had written. He was not lying.
If there is one thing that he knew for certain, it was that he could never lie to himself when it came to contemplating about his self-character.
He sat for a few more moments, awaiting the journal to say something else. Three seconds. Six seconds. Twelve seconds. Thirty seconds.
It seemed that he was back in the real world, his abhorred place where inanimate objects were unable to talk.
The young man was just about to turn away from his desk to stand up and move to his bed, thinking that all there is left is to disappear into a realm of conceivable imagination.
"So, this is how you really feel, huh?" The young man stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to face the journal.
"It's truly amazing how a person can describe how they're feeling when they're at their lowest point, wouldn't you agree?
" He was completely bewildered that his so called "mirage" had not ended after all. He was confused, and angry.
He hastily picked up the journal and threw it into the drawyer in hopes that it would be silenced. The young man waited for five minutes in anticipation that it might speak once again.
There was not a single word, not even a pronounciation of a prefix, root, or suffix. Perhaps for sure it was over. He attempted to make for the bed yet again. "Try talking to me.
I'll listen to you."
The young man immediately took the journal out of the drawyer and flipped it open.
With his left hand he reverse gripped it from its topside, and with the other he began to aggressively rip out the pages in bundles and dropping them onto the floor; however,
he realized that as he was doing so, the pages would replace themselves in the blink of an eye.
He tried to rip them out faster and toward different directions, even grabbing all of the pages at once and strainingly pulling them out, but new ones reappeared no matter the speed or effort.
He let out a yell and ferociously threw the journal against the wall, falling backwards into his chair and panting with exhaustion.
"Tell me what's going on," the journal requested, "and don't rush. Take it one step at a time."
The young man leaned back into his chair, letting out a sigh and staring at the ceiling. He had finally given up on feebly trying to escape from this situation.
Forcing himself to sit up straight, the young man opens up. "There are a lot of things going on right now," he began, "but the main thing is that I feel like I'm not getting anywhere.
I've been doing the same thing over and over again for a long time.
I thought that if I altered my routine at least slightly and picked up on new hobbies and activities, I would then possess a new sense of purpose; however, as you've seen for yourself,
that's clearly not the case." "That is true." The journal said, "You've mentioned a long time, so what would the number be?" "I'd say about four years." "I see.
" "Though I think it's funny how I managed to hang on this long. I always thought that something would've happened by now. Maybe it could've been today.
" "But you've made it this far, right? So what's to stop you from going further?" The young man had to ponder about that question.
He began to think of multiple excuses for how he had gotten to this point and why he is acting the way he is.
First, he blamed his family members, then those he had befriended, third was his job, etc... But when it came down to it, he could only blame himself.
The external factors were enough, but it was internally that he could avoid being mentally crippled.
"Oh, I forgot something," the journal added, "I've yet to tell you my name.
" The young man raised an eyebrow, and asked, "Do journals even have a name?" "It's strange, yes, but humans do give certain objects a name, right?
So, having a name myself shouldn't be surprising." "Then, who gave you your name?" "You'll know soon enough. Anyway, my name is Nicholas.
Might I ask for yours?" "I don't really think that's important." "Please?" The young man rolled his eyes and sighed; nonetheless, he provided his name. "It's...Rodney."