A secluded scene of a heart broken boy.
Jeff Buckleys rendition of Hallelujah echoes somberly off the cold basement walls. Discarded papers litter the coffee table and spill onto the floor. Dirty dishes are stacked on every flat surface. Among the clutter sits a plain black journal. The only thing setting it apart from its generic clone brethren is the two pieces of sports tape on the cover with a title scribbled in green sharpie. A silver pen –once gold- has filled the pages upon which it sits, laid carefully there by the authors hand. This is not the first black note book to be defined by sports tape and green sharpie. In fact the first edition sits locked in a metal box mere feet from the current one. In the box it sits. Waiting. It knows there will be a time when its creator will lift it from it protective hiding place and finger its ink filled pages once more... and relieve every moment and every stroke. Every heartbreak, all the doubts and the tears that stain its pages all flash before his eyes. Then he sets it aside and hesitates a moment while he examines the inside of the lid. A florescent orange post it note clings there, the elegant penmanship on it doing nothing to stem the lie it spells out. On the cover itself is sprawled a silly message of love and hope... something the author can’t seem to find.
Finally he allows his hand to fall inside the metal coffin of broken dreams. He removes a folded piece of paper that he will never really understand –his doubts will see to that. Beneath the fold the black ink forms the same elegantly messy cursive that marks the post it on the lid. It seems time has revealed the notes contents to be true, except maybe the end...sorry... What once seemed so long, and casted a shadow of devastation through the authors’ heart like a dull blade is now a brief ambiguous explanation of why the author now spends too much time in this toxic environment with nothing but his laptop for company.
The last item contained in the box is an old water damaged envelope. The front bears a seasons greeting to another. Inside is the last ditch effort of a boy who knows what’s to come but can’t stand to accept it. Despite the tenderness of the words within, the crushing feeling did set in as the envelope was returned to the sender. The envelope was my minor fall, the note the dénouement of my major lift... now with my broken throne and short cropped hair, I live alone like I never knew ya.