It was becoming all too surreal for the young man. The only action that was compelling him in the moment was to turn around and remove himself from the room.
Before he could, the journal had spoke again, except, the tone sounded as though it was pleading to him. "Please, give me life..." The young man was completely frozen.
His breathing decelerated to a quiet, steady rhythm. "Give me life... Please, just give me life..." He could not say for sure, but it was as if the journal sounded...
sad? Desperate? "Don't leave me. I beg you..."
The young man, still reluctant, mustered up the courage and slowly approached the journal. He picked it up and awaited for it to say something else. "Write in me.
" Write in me? What should I write? He thought. "With that pen, write in me. Write whatever you're thinking." The young man gazed at the ballpoint pen, and then back at the journal.
He nodded his head, and took up his chair and sat at his desk, opening the journal to the very first page and picking up the ballpoint pen.
As he placed the ink tip down onto the paper, he was taken aback by his own hesitation. "Don't worry, it's only you. Write what you will."
"I seriously don't know what's going on anymore. I knew that I'd find myself slipping in and out of reality, but, damn, I didn't think that I was this far gone.
I came home expecting nothing to happen, just myself and pure silence; yet, here I am, consumed by a delusion in which a black ballpoint pen and a dark blue journal suddenly appears in my room,
and the journal itself is speaking to me in a cryptic manner. It instructed me to simply write whatever I'm thinking. Maybe if I do this, I'll be freed from this mirage.
I no longer want to be here. I don't want to feel anymore of the numbness and pain that's become one with my mind.
I've done all that I can in a feeble attempt to experience life in a better light.
Socializing with friends and family, finding hobbies, partaking of the pleasures of merchandise and monetized entertainment, and yet I rarely felt anything good,
and I don't feel anything good now. When it's all said and done, what else can I do? Is there anything, or anyone, waiting for me? I don't think so.
But what do I know, huh? Even as I'm writing this, I feel very tired... I feel like I'm about to fall face first onto this journal and fall fast asleep.
Sleeping is the only thing that sounds good right now, so I guess I'll stop here..."