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By CESAR ZURITA
YOUTH CORRESPONDENT
I was sitting in the upper level of Hyperion Espresso coffee shop with my sketchbook one night, trying to draw. While gazing outside for inspiration, I noticed a small, dark object at the left side of the window. It was a book.
There was some writing in the top left corner of the book, made by a thick, silver Sharpie. The letters were heavy and round, reading, "Find this book." I looked around, thinking it belonged to someone who simply forgot it and would come back. But, after leaving it alone for a few seconds, curiosity took over, and I grabbed it.
It was a fairly small book, maybe about the size of a hand, not thick at all and very much empty except for the words on the first page. Inside were instructions on what to do with the book. It thanked the finder who, at the time, was me, and said to write one or two pages about anything--or, if the finder couldn't think of anything to write about, to draw something.
When finished, the finder was asked to leave the book somewhere else for someone new to find it. An address was written on the back cover with the request it be mailed to the originator when all the pages had been filled. (This I found at the very last moment, as I parted with the book.)
While I sat with the book at Hyperion, I honestly didn't know what to do with it. I was shocked. What was the book's purpose?
The thought of having a little book with these instructions and leaving it for someone else to find was something so wonderful in itself because of all the ideas it sparked in me. It made me wonder why anyone would do this and trust to get the book back. Why would anyone take the time to sit down one day and leave an empty book to be written in?
Maybe its purpose was to be shared by all of those who found it: to give the finder the freedom to do whatever with it, write what he or she is scared of and not worry about being judged, to leave frustrations behind or simply to make someone happy and smile.
Maybe it was to help a sad person in need of a place to leave their thoughts, to spark new ideas from what was always there or to change the way we see the world.
This small, dark blue book left on the top of the window of Hyperion would create a world in itself about all the places it went, the people it met, the irony of life and the happiness that it brings.
I thought of who might find this book. A homeless man? I thought about what he would write about--followed, maybe, by a lover, or a small child who understood the importance of the book, would take care of it and make the book her diary for a while.
Then, maybe, a teacher would find it and think the idea of the book to be profound, yet equally saddening that the current holder wouldn't get to see what else would be written in the book. Or someone would be traveling overseas and would leave it at an airport.
I imagined the places it would go, how it would be passed from person to person, the things that each would write, and how, perhaps, some would comment on past entries.
All these thoughts kept on coming throughout the night.
I thought about the "My Secret" book and how they both, in a way, were on the same level (see sidebar).
I thought about life, and how we make best of the many opportunities that happen to arise. Whether it is by kindness or spurred by hate, there are always outcomes that result from the will--and words--of others.
Words and words; human beings have words. Some don't know how to use them. Some choose not to. But what do the words we know mean?
The reason for words is to convey information that can't be said otherwise. The words that will be written in this small book will be simple words, strung together to make a story, to make the book, to give the book life till the very last page, when its life will be over and it will have to be sent back to its maker. But isn't this what we are, too? Aren't human lives like unwritten books?
Every day of our lives is something new. Every year, we look back to see if we've changed and grown, to see who we are, and to figure out our actual purpose.
So maybe this book isn't so simple. Maybe it stands for being alive in this world, because maybe by the time the book is filled, it will have attachments, pictures and smells. Maybe it'll be torn, and someone else will find it and patch it up so it can still keep its pages, its memories, inside.
In a way, it will live and die. What if it is stopped short and no one else finds it, or if someone happens to keep it. Or what if someone just happens to throw it away without ever looking inside?
Then I realized the book was there for those who cared. The words of the people, a sample of humanity, would always be inside the book for anyone who read it.
It can be lost and found, cared for and cherished. It'll grow tattered and old; and then it will die, alone or by its maker's side. That is what it was intended for, from the very moment it was left on the windowsill.
CESAR ZURITA is a senior
