The 2nd Entry

 For those who have difficulty reading cursive, I've provided a clear, printed version below.

How do you live after realizing you’re not alone in this world? I think you would feel a science of love and belonging. But I am in no way feeling that feeling. It’s something much more sinister. Now, I’m probably getting ahead of myself. What I saw couldn’t possibly be anything other than the most massive fish of all time. But no one will believe me if I tell them so I’m stuck writing it down. I really wish I had proof that I actually hooked it. I went out again today and caught a couple of crappies and some small bass, but everything looks small compared to what I saw. What I experienced might be summed up as a fisher’s high and I’m pretty sure it’s finally peaked.

    This entry captures a haunting mix of wonder and dread. My grandfather seems to feel the thrill of discovering he's “not alone” but quickly realizes it’s not a comforting thought. Instead, it’s unsettling and hard to explain. They try to rationalize it as just a “massive fish” or a “fisher’s high,” but there’s a lingering obsession—the small bass and crappies caught the next day pale in comparison to what they saw. In writing it down, they’re not just recounting; they’re wrestling with the memory, clinging to their own sense of reality while feeling something bigger, darker, just out of reach.