Almost always, I carry a journal with me. It’s not that I write in it often. I just carry it — in case an urgent need to jot down my thoughts arises where I am either not near a computer or the thought is too private to leave any electronic breadcrumbs.
Given this last thought, you can imagine the concern running through my head when I arrive at the office to find it lying on my office chair. My PERSONAL journal! Apparently, I dropped it last evening on the way from my cubicle to my car.
It had been a long time since I could remember writing in it so I honestly could not remember what bits of my deepest, darkest, soul-bearing analysis were revealed in it’s contents.
I feared that this little leather book might be the equivalent of the juiciest harlequin romance novel. Well, perhaps not that juicy. I cautiously opened the book for a brief review, as images of my colleagues stealing my cell phone to obtain my lover’s contact information in order to proposition him for sexual favors ran through my head.
Inside the pages, I wrote of plane bumps and breast lumps, falling in love and falling on treadmills, lost rings and broken things. And while there was mention of sex, the details were left written only in my memory banks. Breathing a sigh of relief, I tucked away the fears and promptly took my little leather book to my car.
And still, hours later, I am left wondering WHO found it and how much they read.