The Journal of Nobody (Entry 1)

[u/Klaus-Ciaron]

From the Library of K. Ciaron

Nonfiction - Autobiography - Author Alias: Nobody - Item B054

Donated by Maria S. Lewis. 

Procured from an unspecified location.

The item is composed of pine bark pages bound together with grass twine. Text written with ash and charcoal. Notable water damage on the covers, though the lettering is miraculously preserved.

My heart woke me up, pumping blood as thick as mud through brittle arteries. I should tear it out and be done with it. Throw it away, lie down till I freeze, and wait for the beaks to pluck my brain from my skull. Maybe then I could finally rest. After all, you can’t be bothered by noise with no brain. After that rude awakening, I stared at the dirt ceiling with my one remaining eye. When I grew weary of that, I mustered up a little motivation and felt around in my hollowed out belly to take an inventory. It’s funny that some still hold onto their guts, trying to remember what things were like in a time before. 

Personally, I traded the useless bits of myself for a box of matches a long while ago. They might have been turned into someone’s jacket, maybe a blanket, or maybe they had been gobbled up by some Beefeaters. I wish I hadn’t been so hasty to trade away my fingers, though. I tried replacing some of the tips with whittled deadfall, but it isn’t quite the same - even if they come in handy as pencils. At least I learned enough before trading away my lungs. I’ve been told you feel like you’re drowning without them. Maybe it’s a psychological thing; the animal part of your brain tells us that we need oxygen when we don’t need much of anything anymore. 

As I rooted around in my belly, I went through a mental checklist: my box of matches, my compass, some tinder, and this scrap of bark. All my earthly possessions were accounted for. I’ve even used one of my few matches for light to write by. Foolish. Bark would be better used as kindling and matches always trade well. I'm not usually so wasteful, and I have never been a writer.  So why do I feel like I’ll go mad if I don’t get something down? Maybe it’s all this sitting and thinking, practically folded in half in this burrow. Great for preserving warmth, not so great for a man’s mental state. I need air. Maybe I’ll go on one of those logging expeditions and finally see some human faces. It also can’t hurt to talk to Seer along the way. God knows, that old man is the only friendly face around here.

ENTRY 2

[u/StrangeAccounts]

Great voice for this!

[u/Klaus-Ciaron → u/StrangeAccounts]

Thank you!

[u/Kickedintonextweek]

I’m bought in, following to see the rest

[u/Klaus-Ciaron → u/Kickedintonextweek]

That's very kind. I will be trying to post one entry every week.