The courtroom’s clerestory was just wide enough for the Texas sun to make its presence known. It was quickly acknowledged by the oak furniture that had kept me company while I awaited my sentence. The muffled sound of heavy heels knocking on the hallway’s terrazzo floor grew louder until it stopped for about three seconds before being followed by a creak only an oak door could make.
In came a gentleman, about my father’s age, dressed in a black robe, holding a single piece of paper. The unfortunate heel knocking resumed as he made his way to the judge’s bench. He asked for my name even though an almost instinctual feeling told me he knew it along with everything there was to know about me. Once his question was answered, he quietly stared and squinted at the sheet of paper as if it was whispering instructions only he could hear.
Worried I might overhear their private exchange, I once again turned towards the clerestory. The sun had begun making its way home, leaving behind amber clouds on a pastel sky. The judge delivered the paper’s instructions in a tone loud enough for me and the furniture to hear clearly:
“For the crime of not achieving anything of significance for the first quarter of your life, you are hereby sentenced to be a scribe,” he said. I shot up from my chair in objection but froze in confusion. “You are to document all thought, emotion, memory, sin, and experience in any medium of your choosing for the remainder of your life” he continued. “Should you leave anything out, the court shall ensure your existence is truly forgotten.”
A punishment so absurd that I could only think of writing about my distaste towards it. I struggled to understand why, if my first twenty-five years were so insignificant, I should bother documenting the next twenty-five.
After a few hours of failed negotiation attempts with the judge, I slowly came to terms with my new life sentence. I began to consider different tools I would use to complete my task. Although this choice is subject to change, given the chronic indecisiveness that’s led me to my current situation, I decided a fountain pen, a notebook, and a camera would be enough for the time being.
I held my thoughts in the same way one holds his breath as I walked out of the courtroom. I could feel the judge’s stare now blaming me for the oak door’s creak. As soon as I got home I gathered my tools and took my first step in the shoes of a perpetual observer
“July 16th 2026 – The courtroom’s clerestory was just wide enough . . .”
