Hidden Between The Worlds of Wonder
Looking back at the journal entries.
While reading the last line of the book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I thought gloomily, what next? I had read the entire series for the second time in the past year and was still reluctant to move on to newer books. Blaming the mental demands from other walks of life, I consistently relied on Harry Potter while overlooking the unread and dusty issued books from the library and electronic versions on Kindle and Audible.
The magical series provided guaranteed comfort to me, which was only likely if I explored other books.
But I finished the series again, this time only in two months, and had to choose the next book to read and continue reading. It was essential to progress in the realm of words and venture away from the magical world for some time.
So, unwillingly, I moved toward my tiny shelf and started looking through titles to choose from. After a few moments, I decided upon a classic novel by Leo Tolstoy. I was trying to be brave after technically reading a children’s book series. While pulling out the gigantic novel, something much smaller slipped from the shelf, covered in an old newspaper sheet.
I picked up the newspaper-covered something and instantly remembered what it was. There, hidden between the worlds of wonder, between classics and non-fiction, lay torn pages from my journal, packed in a newspaper from about six years ago. I remembered forcefully pulling those pages from the journal and hiding them within the old sheet and between the books.
I wanted to use the journal for other purposes, and clearly, these pages were standing in the way.
So, I tore them off for the new start of the journal but couldn’t brace myself to throw them away. Perhaps it was respect for my time and effort that went into filling those pages, or maybe it was the wish to preserve the memory despite vaguely recalling that it was not pleasant. So, I hid them between books larger than their size, and they remained hidden with time, from me and my memories until I started pulling out the novel.
Sweeping aside the resolution of reading classics, I unraveled the newspaper pack and started perusing my journal entries. Around 15 pages of ramblings were scribbled, dripping with endless emotions and desperate explanations. Going through the pages made me vividly remember the event that had resulted in such elaborate and wordy whining.
The event surrounded a simple digital conversation with an old friend, who is not a friend anymore. The conversation had made me feel enormously uncomfortable, offended, and miserable in the past. I sadly recalled agonizing over accusatory texts for many days after the conversation. The texts were about my memory, about me remembering every detail about the friend.
Behind the veils of the phone screen, the friend had politely asked, “Why do you do that (remember things)?”
I had asked the friend how their day went as they were working on a holiday. The friend, perplexed at my divine memory/knowledge, interjected and enquired how I knew they were working that day.
Disappointed and scared, they asked me “not to do that.”
As a “good” friend, I sincerely apologized for asking how their day went and feebly defended myself by reminding them that they had told me about working a few days ago. The friend digitally chuckled and said there was no need for a “sorry.”
The conversation ended there.
In the journal entries, I blamed myself intensely, listing out probable reasons why remembering such a thing about a friend was problematic (or creepy?). But a few paragraphs later, I also listed reasons for remembering it and stressed that it is not that difficult to remember when somebody works on a holiday. And then, as an ardent overthinker, I finally listed connections to previous squabbles that might have led to this polite blunder.
Looking back at the journal entries, I didn’t relive through or feel any of the misery. Now that six years had passed, I could clearly see that I was way more invested in the friendship than them. The friendship was asymmetrical, and naturally, I cared and worried more. The friendship existed only when they needed it. Otherwise, it remained canceled.
While an urge to blame the friend was rising in my mind, it didn’t last for more than a few seconds. Instead, I felt I should’ve just defended myself and not offered an apology. The friend was right, at least in that regard. There was no need for a “sorry.”
Life has been like this a lot lately, where looking back at memories, I don’t detest what happened to me; instead, I just mull over how I reacted. Not in a reprimanding way but rather in a consoling and supportive way. Like here, an apology was not needed. Perhaps what was needed was a loving whack to my head and no more texting, especially when the friend needed it.
Alas, that’s all in the past, and I was available in the blink of an eye when the friend had texted after a few days.
I mused over my divine ability to remember things, which is actually quite flawed—and then thought over my relentless availability, which needed some tweaking as per the people around me. Unsurprisingly, the friend never complained about my availability. Nevertheless, I folded the journal entries again, and instead of carefully packing them, I kept them aside to discard.
I no longer felt the need to preserve the memory. But, some uneasiness and unpleasantness about the memory lingered, and I had a momentary urge to restart Harry Potter to curl under the comfort blanket. I resisted the urge and just recounted the whole story to a close friend, who, upon hearing, calmly said, “You didn’t deserve that.”
Hearing this made me think that neither the older friend nor I were entirely wrong, but maybe "us" together was wrong.
Immensely grateful for my current friend's generous outlook and their acceptance of my remarkable (flawed) memory, I returned to my reading ventures and started with the classic world of wonder.
