A Collection of Journals


 Raindrops race down the windows, chasing after one another. The heater hums lightly and softly like a purring cat. Home. There isn’t much to do around the house these days. The silence beckons to me, daring me to sleep for hours and hours. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve spoken to someone. I’ve been stuck here for so long. At home. I think about my future often. About what will happen after the lockdown is over. That is, if the lockdown ends. The threat of disease has kept everyone fearful of what will happen next. The loneliness didn’t bother me for a couple of months, but it came creeping in slowly and steadily. 

Whenever I check online, I see people continuing on with their lives. They live in ignorance but the bliss that accompanies looks so bittersweet. The world was supposed to stop, but I feel like the only one who slowed down. Around me, everyone acts as if things are normal. They’re the balloons with strings that were cut free, while I’m still tethered to an anchor of fear.  

“Anchor” by Plbmak

“The Bookstore”

As I enter the store, the sweet air hits my face. It smells sour, like paper, but in a familiar way. I browse through the shelves, tracing my fingers through the countless novels. The silent atmosphere is heavy, as usual. The owner plays old, sad music on their old, sad record player that sits under dust in the back of the store. 

I imagine what the shop looked like back in the day. Children weaving around the bookshelves that looked like skyscrapers compared to their height. Laughter would’ve rung  throughout the now empty shop. 

Except it isn’t empty. There is me and the books and me again. My thoughts feel too loud for the store, I can almost feel them echoing throughout the warm room. I snap out of the trance that the atmosphere casts on me and leave while the exit bell rings through my ears.

Days later, I return. The building looks tired. The windows are boarded up and dark, warm light no longer seeps out onto the street that I stand on. A closed sign lies on the ground next to the door, discarded already. In this moment I feel like the last person on earth. 

“Books or just art?” by Alexandre Dulaunoy

“Summer’s Over”

We met in July. The heat that the sun cast down on us made us itchy and sweaty, so we tried to seek shelter under the looming trees that cast shadows across that small creek. Laughter echoed throughout the creek that day when you attempted to jump across it but instead landed in the mud and water. I remember joining you in the water, splashing and giggling until we both ran out of breath. After we dried off, you told me that you loved me.

Now the chill of October surrounds my body, my soul, my heart. Maybe the warmth of the summer had driven us mad. Perhaps we were foolish to believe that something so sweet could last forever, while the threat of fall krept in the back of our minds. The orange leaves that freckle the ground crunch under my feet as I take that path down to the creek. The one that we had taken many times. I could still see footprints in the terrain, though it felt as if I was looking at evidence of life from a million years ago. 

I sit by the creek alone now, with the sound of running water flooding my ears. The noise comforts me, however it isn’t enough to drown out the memories that accompany it. The memories of you. Your smile. Your eyes that sparkled like fireworks when you looked at me. I suppose that all good things must come to an end. I pick up a couple of dusty rocks and begin to skip them through the whispering water. The hope that we may meet again someday in the future fills my heart with determination. Our love faded with the summer, but the memories never will.

“Rock Garden On The River” by FreeWine

The Old Man

The ocean’s vastness overwhelmed me. The wind whistled and scraped over the surface of the dark, churning water while bringing the smell of salt towards me. I inhaled, welcoming the nostalgic scent that reminded me of home. 

My legs began to shake as I lowered myself onto the bench slowly, I had become accustomed to seniority many years ago. It fascinated me how life begins slow and picks up speed, yet ends slow as well. I chuckle to myself darkly as I think about the irony. However I wouldn’t trade this for anything. When your life slows down again you begin to take in the little things.

I basked in the cold, salty air as it swirled around me and I began to notice small specks on the horizon. Sea life emanated from the depths, the dolphins’ glossy bodies stood out from the rest of the water. Even with my old eyes, which were worn and foggy from many years on this Earth, I was able to capture the beauty of the creatures. 

Letting out a sigh, I opened my timeworn leather wallet that my father had given to me many, many years ago. Some of the threads were slightly off-colored, from the many times that my late wife had sewn it back together in an attempt to preserve the tattered old thing. I smiled as I looked at the picture of us that I’d kept stashed away in the pocket of the wallet for all these years. Our wedding day. The memories flowed back to me as I continued to breathe in the salty air and relish the cold around me. I once more looked at the sea. The hungry, endless body of water that my wife had once loved dearly. The sea that now swirled before me. I smiled and closed my eyes. Just one last time.

“El Viejo y el Mar (versión urbana) /// The Old Man and the Sea (urban version)” by Walimai.photo

In the Eyes of Death

He takes who he pleases, without any consideration. It’s a random thing; an old man, a criminal, a sick child. No matter who you are, you will always have the human realization that he is waiting for you. Watching, stalking, creeping up behind you. Waiting to take you away when you least expect it. Some try to keep their guard up, in an attempt to guarantee a longer life. Others leave their guard down. 

It doesn’t matter to him regardless. He takes and takes, breathing his dark breath over their faces that fall still. Their eyes roll back, some people bleed. His persistence seems unfair to outside eyes, however I know that this is all random. In this world where nothing is guaranteed, a world where nothing is fair, people try to rise up around their peers. The only truly fair thing that doesn’t discriminate against good and bad, rich and poor, is his sweet release of death.

“Eye death” by @Doug88888

I Hope

I hope that you never get the chance to read this. I hope that a sparkling river cuts through your room, that moss covers your walls, and that the birds fly lazily above. I hope that your computer rusts and ivy begins to grow inside of it, the green intertwining and dancing with the wires. 

I wish that this message doesn’t reach a soul. With all of my heart, I hope that nature takes back what belongs to her. I dream of a future where the silence is deafening. Where anything can be created and nothing destroyed. 

I hope that the sun’s rays make their way through the cracks in the cement. I hope that the air feels warm against your skin and lips. I hope that you find peace.

“ivy” by steve p2008

2 thoughts on “A Collection of Journals

  1. Your story “Summer’s Over” really scratched my brain in all the right places! The use of detail really illustrated the story, which really well brought it together. Towards the end, the last couple of sentences felt extreamly impactful and left a great impression on the readers. Thank You!


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