Normally, about this time, I am feigning sleep: bus seat reclined, earbuds in, cap pulled low. I do this so I don't have to interact with this group of familiar strangers. So they don't comment on the weather, don't ask me to put my seat up, don't ask "Is that one of those iPods?"
Shit. I din't realize how much the bus moved. Hard to write. Of course, it's always hard for me to write, physically at least. I still write like the consummate teacher's pet, hand curled over, covering, smearing my words. Fingers tight and cramping after only a few sentences. I don't hold the pen, I throttle it.
Write, damn you.
If this is ever found, if the finder can read my scrawl, s/he will see just another mundane journal, true life colored by the small narcissistic lies that tint our perceptions of grandeur and paranoia. OR maybe they'll see another mediocre manuscript, rambling and pointless, lies shaped by truths poorly hidden by the writer. Or maybe they will see garbage and throw it away.
Of course, as you already know, all three hypothetical finders will be 100% correct.