As I prepared to publish a different post, today, I noticed the last one I posted, Tell me, please. Most people are honest, aren't they? and am compelled to reveal the outcome of the search for the lost (stolen?) books before I go on. I publish this explanation with joy—that my faith in humanity is restored, and chagrin—at having to admit that I, and I alone, am the guilty party.
The explanation may relate to my next post: Confessing and Accepting my Chaotic Mind, but, long story short, after giving up on ever finding them again, and seeking to replace the lost items, I found them, just in time to stop the order for replacements. Where did I find them? The answer, as is the case almost every time I lose anything, is—exactly where I put them. (The box of discs for the audio books in a basket of props covered with two tablecloths and the books I purchased for birthday gifts, on a cluttered shelf in my office underneath an old magazine.)
My apologies to the world for thinking the worst when I should have known the truth from my life-long experience with a forgetful and dissociative mind.
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