I sometimes used to write. And though my memory has weakened remarkably since the disease, or at least that's what the doctor and others have made me believe, I can clearly recall that most of the time it was a little red notebook where I scribbled down all my thoughts. Ever since my return from the hospital, I have been searching for that notebook. My nurse told me a few days back that the 'notebook' only exist in my head. Her words had hurt me, and instantly a pain had swelled up my throat as I tried to gulp down the tablet. Actually nowadays I have to depend so much on her that I hardly have any option other than to agree with her on all matters.
But surprisingly enough, yesterday while rearranging the books on my shelf, I finally found my lost possession. It was hiding in a pile of old magazines. The red cover had lost much of its luster. Time had indeed left its mark on it. The pages had turned a little yellow, and it had that distinct smell of age. I opened it gently, careful enough not to let any loose page fall out. However to my shock I found that it was virtually blank. All this while I had been hoping that I will again remember many things about my past unpublished writings once I get my hands on this notebook, but someone seemed to have erased everything from it and left it almost empty, much like my own mind.
Only the last page carried a few lines lines, written in my handwriting:
"I sometimes write. And I spend most of my time wondering why do I write? Probably I use writing as a coy to justify and dignify my psychological and sexual obsessions by attaching them to big moral questions and grand philosophical issues, or to voice my biased views in the safe disguise of art, or perhaps it is just another effort of mine to relate the desolate world inside me to the world outside. It probably has no meaning for others, and hardly serves any purpose for me as well. So why not just erase everything that I have written so far? Can I?...."
But surprisingly enough, yesterday while rearranging the books on my shelf, I finally found my lost possession. It was hiding in a pile of old magazines. The red cover had lost much of its luster. Time had indeed left its mark on it. The pages had turned a little yellow, and it had that distinct smell of age. I opened it gently, careful enough not to let any loose page fall out. However to my shock I found that it was virtually blank. All this while I had been hoping that I will again remember many things about my past unpublished writings once I get my hands on this notebook, but someone seemed to have erased everything from it and left it almost empty, much like my own mind.
Only the last page carried a few lines lines, written in my handwriting:
"I sometimes write. And I spend most of my time wondering why do I write? Probably I use writing as a coy to justify and dignify my psychological and sexual obsessions by attaching them to big moral questions and grand philosophical issues, or to voice my biased views in the safe disguise of art, or perhaps it is just another effort of mine to relate the desolate world inside me to the world outside. It probably has no meaning for others, and hardly serves any purpose for me as well. So why not just erase everything that I have written so far? Can I?...."
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