I don’t have a name. She
never calls me with specific name. Calls me just “notebook”. I heard when she
told her sister. -Give me that notebook.
-Which one? You have 50
notebooks.
-The red one.
So, you can call me
notebook as well.
I am almost at the end of
my life. The ones before me had lived for 365 days. It will be same with me. As writings
on me are getting more and more and my sheets are getting less, I feel sad. I wish
I would hold back the day which I will go to the bookshelf. But everyone will
go from this world one day. What can we do?
I look at the old
notebooks. They are stacked in a corner of the bookshelf. She remembers my siblings
once in a year when she rearranges her books. She cleans their dusts, turns the
pages over. Sometimes she reads them for some time. She becomes thoughtful after
that. I can’t understand.
Whenever she is like that,
I pay for that. What the hell I did? She writes so hard by pressing pen on me
that I feel breathless. I feel like my sheets will be torn now.
- Can you press this
fucking pen slowly? I shout but she doesn’t hear.
Although she hurts me so
much, still I wait for her every night. Who else I have apart from her? My time
starts after she comes back from work and takes rest. She opens me before
sleep. First, she writes something on other notebooks. It takes so short. Then she
comes on me. Opens, closes, writes, stops for some time, again writes.
She writes every day.
I look at her face when
she writes. Sometimes she writes smiling. At that time pen doesn’t hurt me. As words
are written one by one, I feel like she is caressing me. I know that something
good has happened. Sometimes she cries while writing. Then I know that
situation is not good.
I am worn out because of
so many openings and closings. My color is faded now. When her favorite boss
gave me to her as a present, I was bright red.
Look at me now. Ink spots,
dirt. And my life is going to end soon.
Never mind my complaints.
If she forgets me even for a day, I will destroy the world.
She writes everything on
me. What happened at work, what happened at home, how she feels.
These days she is not getting
along with her dad. Actually, it never went well. She had written so many
complaints about him on the notebooks before me. They had quarrel years ago. And
it hasn’t been fixed after that. As far as I understand it will never be fixed.
She remembers Kafka so
much, that’s why I know. Even she doesn’t, there are so many Kafkas at her apartment,
from bookmarks to notebooks.
Sometimes she takes me to
her job in her bag. I like to travel by metro. When she gets on metro, she
put the book on her knees and keeps me in her bag. I feel drowning.
When she reaches job, she says just
hi, good morning to her colleagues and that’s it. She doesn’t talk with anyone. She just sits
alone like an owl. Her colleagues gossip about her. They call her rude, unsociable
and misanthrope. But she doesn’t care. She even writes these things on me with
proud.
If you knew how painful it is. She doesn’t write on her own language so that someone can read it at home,
and I can feel relaxed. I can at least be sure that something read me and I am not alone with so many words. Poor me.
Every day I listen to her
problems. This happened at work, that happened at home.
I have suspected
something as well. Sometimes she writes enthusiastically, then she stops
suddenly. She has black notebook. God knows where she keeps it. She brings that
one and writes. I have seen it several times. When she writes about unknown “he”,
she changes the notebook. I am sure that she complains in that notebook too.
Apart from complaining,
she makes me mad. She is never satisfied. She wakes up early morning, writer
and reads before going to work. After work also same things.
But at night she writes on me that “unproductive day”. 24 hours aren’t enough for her.
I think I made enough
gossip about her. My heart was full. Now I am feeling light.
So, it is time to go. She
is calling me. I wish she would write something good on my last days. I wish I could
go happily to the bookshelf…
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