The troubles of losing something

To declare someone (or something) is missing, 24 hours should've passed since the time that person (or object) was last seen. The last time I saw my personal journal was Sunday afternoon. It doesn't take a genius to understand that it's been more than 24 hours.

I remember leaving it on my desk beside my mug when I went out of the dorm. I didn't bother bringing it—it was a matter of great importance. Private things should remain in their private places.

Now I'm having second thoughts if I'm remembering things rightly. Memory—at least mine—has its way of messing things up. I've looked at my bed and under it, I've asked my roommates, I've created a mental movie of what I did that Sunday afternoon.

It's still missing. Otherwise, I wouldn't be so desperate writing this.

What if someone reads my journal?

Well, it's personal, for one—and it shouldn't be read. At least, not by everyone. There are many things I've written there that I wouldn't normally talk about. They're not embarassing blackmail entries, so don't count on ever reading something like that in case you pick up my journal after I'm dead.

I don't think it was stolen, though. My gut feeling is that it's just somewhere, hidden in a corner, waiting for the right time to be found.

UPDATE (October 14, 2008): Calvin saw it, tucked neatly between the bed sheet and the wall. Thanks Calv.