(A short parable about writing.)
Once there was a Gnome named Gregory who kept a diary. He wanted to record as much as he possibly could about what happened to him.
And what he did.
And what he experienced.
Now Gregory had something that I do not, and which, most likely, you do not: he quite enjoyed handwriting. He really, truly enjoyed the process of using his fingers and a quill and ink and (any surface, really) to make words permanent (or at least, more permanent than air.)
This would prove to be terrible for him. Perhaps?
It turns out that there’s quite a lot of information out there. It was often remarked that Gregory had been fortunate to speak words out loud.
It wasn’t that he lived entirely within his diary. He often came out of it to speak, and he was polite. Often.
I mean, in general.
I mean, sometimes.
The problem was, he was constantly losing time.
Because he had never figured out how to record everything perfectly.
And even if he started doing so, or came reasonably close…and, he sure hoped, at least, he was, perhaps, mayhap, getting closer…
…think of all the time he’d lost!
All the memories!
All the never-haves-again never stored even in his little diary, much less in his mind.
By the age of five, Jeremy took his diary with him to bed.
By seven, it accompanied him to meals.
By eight, it went with him to school, camp, trips to take out the garbage, expeditions to mine Adamantium, everything.
We don’t really know what happened after that.
According to Jeremy, he led an exciting life.
And he’d let us read all about it.
As soon as he was given a second lifetime to edit it properly.
_________
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