I got the notebook back last night. I could tell by the way it looked a little bit ‘lived in’ that he had used it as I intended. I could also tell, that the experience of carrying the notebook around had affected him, not in the same way, probably, but as it had also affected me.
He wanted to read from his entries but I said no. Suddenly seeing it there in real life analogue again, with him sat there beside me, I felt shy about the words I’d scrawled. I started to wish I hadn’t got it out that time on the tube when I was pissed. He did say that I ‘lost it a bit in the middle’. Too right I did.
When we parted I decided not to read what he had written, not yet anyway. The notebook was burning a hole in my bag and all I could think of was how to get rid of it. Luckily or rather cleverly, I had already made a date with the next potential ‘guardian’ for the following day. The hot potato would be out of my hands again very soon.
I hope the next person agrees to take part. I hope that he enjoys reading the personal confessions of two strangers. I hope he doesn’t think I am a complete headcase. Or if he does, that he realises this little band of secret scribblers have self-selected to a degree.
The notebook belongs to all of us. We just don’t like to admit it out loud.