> Joy stared out the window.
>
> The loud pitter-patter of rain orchestrated a symphony of isolation around her. Each droplet collided with the world outside with a force so potent it seemed to consume all other sounds. It drowned the sound of her beating heart; it drowned the muffled sobs coming from her brother's room; it drowned the yelling from deeper in the house - all were drowned out by the relentless rain.
>
> A question lingered within the depths of her mind, unspoken yet deafening: could this rain, this relentless, omnipotent force, drown her as well? Could it wash away the absurdity of her existence, liberate her from the manacles of life's ceaseless ebb and flow between joy and sorrow, abundance and emptiness? Could it silence the convulsion within her, the force that disturbed her inner equilibrium? Perhaps it could guide her towards the inviting embrace of oblivion.
>
> Her gaze was locked onto the tempest beyond the glass, her attention held by the solitary pine tree standing tall amidst the chaos. Its towering height a testament to its age. It stood tall, a solitary guardian amidst the storm, its stature all the more conspicuous in its solitude.
>
> With each gust of wind that beat against it, the leaves shivered. With each raindrop that struck its bark, the leaves shivered. The lonely pine was tortured by the agony of the world’s blisful gifts. The storm wanted the tree to be uprooted, pushed over by and crushed under the deluge’s wrath. It wanted the tree to snap, fracture under the might of the storm.
>
> She thinks of what it must be like to be that great and mighty pine. The lonely tree that stands against chaos. How it must feel to welcome back its old friend of agony. How it must feel to be in agony’s loving embrace as it peels off its bark bit by bit; as its roots are pound until there is nothing left connecting the poor tree to the ground; as its body stress and strains to keep its body from fracturing from within.
>
> The tree surely imagines how it must feel to be uprooted. To feel the wayning fluidity of nutrients as it dissipates, as it drains unil there is nothing left. It considers the pain of dying to not be a precise painful sensation in its body, but a a dulled reality growing weaker until there is no more life. It must then be welcomed into the vague voluptuous comfort of oblivion.
>
> And what of breaking? Surely it must also contemplate the sensation of fracture and splinter. The idea of its sturdy trunk creaking under the strain, the noise drowning out even the storm as the internal stress reaches a climax. It must imagine the abrupt release as its fibers tear apart, splintering into fragments that scatter in the wind, surrendering to the storm's relentless pressure.
>
> This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
>
> It would envisage the shocking instant of disruption, the sudden transition from solidity to fragmentation, from standing tall to falling down. Would it be a relief, she wondered, to finally give in, to stop fighting against the inevitable, to let go of the struggle and allow the storm to take over?
>
> She turned her gaze upward, towards the swirling canvas of the sky. The sky, once a vibrant blue was now shrouded in shadows, cloaked in hues of grey. The clouds moved with a purpose, a choreographed dance propelled by the wind. They twisted and twirled, a turbulent waltz that mirrored the chaos on the ground below.
>
> Oh how it must mock us down below, she thought, its vast expanse a cruel reminder of our insignificance. With its ever-changing hues, it weaves illusions of peace only to shatter them with sudden storms. It tempts us with glimpses of the sun, only to cloak it behind looming clouds. It lures us with the promise of freedom, only to batter us with gusts of wind that rattle our foundations and make us question our strength.
>
> It laughs at our dreams, our hopes, our desires, transforming them into whimsical clouds that change shape and dissipate before we can grasp them. It lulls us into a sense of security with its clear, calm vastness, then unloads its fury in a sudden downpour, leaving us drenched and shivering, caught off guard.
>
> And it does this with an indifferent majesty, a nonchalance that adds to the sting of its betrayal. It doesn't care about the lives it affects, the hopes it shatters, or the chaos it leaves in its wake. It is a higher power, unbound by human sentiment or morality. It is an omnipotent entity that moves to its own rhythm, abiding by its own laws, indifferent to the turmoil it wreaks below.
>
> A wicked laugh writhed within her, tangled with the anguish of existence. She knew what must be done, she knew how to break the cycle.
So, this is the first short story in the journal. There are more, but the handwriting seems to worsen as I delve deeper into it. It's strange - you'd expect the handwriting to improve with practice, not deteriorate.
The content of this first story is dark, and I can't help but worry about Joy, whoever she is. Her musings are deep, philosophical, almost too heavy for someone to bear. I hope she found some peace, some respite from her inner turmoil.
I'll do my best to keep updating this journal as I transcribe it, but I've just started a new job managing registrations and abstract submissions for a planetary science conference. It's a huge step up from my current fast food job, and I'm sure it's going to keep me busy. Especially since I haven’t quit from my fast food job yet. On top of all this, I'm also working on my own novel, "Below The Black Sun", which you can also find here on this site. It's taking a lot of my creative energy and time, so I might not have as much time as I'd like to dedicate to this journal.
I’m going to sound really fucking crazy, but this journal gives me the heebie-jeebies. I mean, like where did it even come from? Why is it so disturbing? There just a lot of weird things happening around it and I really don't want to talk about it. I just feel like if I said something, everyone would think I’m insane.
I'll update you with the next story from the journal when I can. It's become something of a mystery to me, and I feel compelled to see it through, despite... well, the creepiness...
Until then, stay tuned.