“Well, I do not know how this will begin. I literally have no idea how this one might end. At this very moment, I have no idea how many words there will be at the end, or how long it will take me to formulate this all down. What I do know is that, when I finish this, I would have created something that sets me apart from the general populace. I would have created something that did not exist before. A collection of words that, for all intents and purposes, hasn’t been arranged in that combination ever before. Is it any good? Is it of use to anyone? I don’t know. But what I do know, is that, with each sentence I write, I am honing my skills. Sure, I can’t create world class fiction or write captivating narratives that enthrall people, but I’ll get there one day, soon enough.
So, is this being entitled? The way I came off in the lines above, it sure does seem that I think just the fact that I write somehow sets me on a higher level than everyone else. But that is not the case, at least, that’s what I believe. Everyone has a story within, it’s just that not all of us decide to write. So why is someone like me, who possesses no writing skills, doing this? Is it solely because I have a story to tell? Or are there more sinister agendas at play? Who knows?”
I found the entry in the journal on the table before me. Hundreds of pages, scribbled all over, filled with sketches, rants, dreams and musings. Dog-eared corners, coffee stains on the pages, and just the manner in which everything was scribbled meant that it was used everyday. The journal was obviously a very intimate part of the subject’s life. A couple dozen pages into the journal, there were what seemed like vacation pics. Pretty cheerful and happy, if you get my drift. The subject’s room, however, definitely was not. Every object lay in a random manner all around the room, as if a mini-tornado had displaced everything from its place. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of a mini-tornado, but I realised this was no situation to let my imagination run amok. Something had happened. Something disastrous. Or maybe nothing had happened, and the subject had just run away to take a break from everything. At this point, I really wished I had remembered the subject’s name.