I have no idea how long this journal floated in the river before I noticed it as I was crossing the bridge. With the paper shortage of the war it wasn't something I could just pass by. I felt like a fool climbing down the muddy bank to go fish garbage out of the water, I am sure that every person who crossed the river was laughing at me. Still, once I had taken the trouble to climb down the bank I would not give up my prize or I really would have been a fool.
Once I had this sodden journal in my possession I returned to the bridge, panting and slightly damp myself. I would have been infuriated had I discovered the pages were full after all that trouble but I was relieved to find that only the first few pages had been filled. They were covered in numbers and what looked like accounts. I tore those pages out and threw them in the first rubbish can I came to, making this journal truly mine. Having gone home and changed my clothing, leaving this journal behind a radiator to dry, I headed out to say goodbye to my father.
I suppose I ought to be grateful that I have not been sent into the war before. It is one of the few times that I have been thankful for my weakness and sickliness. The misfortune of my career made it inevitable that I would end up on the battlefield however. I will admit that despite the fact that I have expected this to happen, I am filled with dread of my departure. One of the reasons I am keeping this journal is to help release this feeling. I certainly cannot share it with another person, with so many off to war and dying cowardice is not tolerated by anyone or anywhere.
Things have always been awkward between my father and I. Most of my last visit with my father was silent, even when to break the discomfort I suggested we walk along the docks. Even now that my father has retired from the ocean I doubt he will ever live far from the sea.
“So you'll be on an airship then,” my father said finally, I had known he wouldn't be happy about that. “Don't trust them, they aren't reliable, watch yourself.” Father looked up at the sky with total disgust , disgust that was so intense that it remained on his face even when he looked back down at the ocean. Having said his piece my father fell silent again and I grew so uncomfortable that I finally excused myself.
My gear had been sent to my rooms by the time I got back from saying goodbye to father. I sorted through it and signed the douser for it, but looking it over made me sick to my stomach. I am a writer, I was never meant to spill blood, but now I was being handed the tools for both trades. It was a union between the newspaper and the air force that resulted in the packages on my bed, a fact all too accentuated by the emblems that covered them. This marriage that left me defenseless against the war apparently felt the need to then rub itself in my face.
I have now finished my final packing and finding myself at lose ends I pulled out this journal. Now I have written it all out on paper I feel a little better and my alarm clock is ticking me out a lullaby, reminding that I have to get up early.
To be continued....
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