There was a notebook lying on the table. It was unopened, untitled. It was so available – so ready for its cover to be lifted. What was inside? No one knew. Somebody, somewhere had written in it. It sat in the corner of the empty room.
The temptation of the notebook was inescapable. The presence that surrounded the notion of opening it was overbearing.
Then, a hand reached out and slowly lifted the cover. The contents was no longer a mystery. The first words read:
I have no way of knowing what kind of mysteries are held in my own knowledge, so read, you, not me, know of my personal thoughts.
So the reader read, every warped page, sometimes at night in bed, the old bulb of the lamp flashing dimly on the nightstand. At lunch break at work.
In morning over coffee and scrambled eggs.
But the last page was blank. So the reader picked up a pen, and wrote. Then he closed the book, and left it for someone else to read. On a bench that sat on a cliff overlooking the sea. The notebook would be warped again – now from salt air. And at some point, it would be found by somebody.
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.