Today was a special day. For the past couple years, pen has been placed to paper in a Moleskine Classic. The blank pages allow freedom, unlike the lined notebooks that make a writer stick to uniformity. The purchase of a new journal marked the completion of the one before. It presented the notion I could leave what was written in the pages behind, start anew: fresh.
But this isn't reality. That last notebook contained many of my thoughts and ideas that I couldn't fully form into words. Secrets that continue to haunt me with their lack of clarity and structure. Ideas that never came to fruition.
As a writer, words are building blocks. Words allow the possibility to make the intangible tangible. Words provide insight and decode all that is mystic, uncertain, and difficult.
Brushing hand over binding of the journal, it mocks me.
Nothing is bound, no matter how hard you try to lock the diary, the past trespasses upon the present. The words are missing. The wrapping is still smothering what I can only imagine are pristine pages. Life has become a foreign language not yet learned. All efforts to connect block to block lead to a tumbling tower, and I am left the child, sweeping the mess of LEGOs off the floor into a massive bucket. Each noun, article, and verb creating a swirl of colors. The mix intrigues me, but they are liquid with no foundation to hold them together.
And so I type. I type instead as this feels fleeting. The idea not essential to place on flesh of page.
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