It’s tough to resign this book of inked confidences to the shelf. More than five years of my most intimate musings are contained within the bindings of this journal. I remember the day I bought it; it was my birthday and I was treating myself to all the things I loved. Naturally, that included a visit to the library and a meandering through the bookstore.
I’d paused at the display of journals. A polished stone or jewel, and fancy tooling, decorated the front of most. They were beautiful. The textured pages, rough to the touch, were laced to the spine. A new journal was the most perfect treat for my birthday. Some might indulge in a piece of jewellery or a spa
package, but nothing pleased me more than purchasing this book.
Over the years, I never left home without
packing it in my overnight case, or tucking it inside my tote for a trip to the
beach or park. It most definitely accompanied me on all people-watching
excursions. It often went untouched, but it was there for me if I felt the
urge.
Months might go by without a single note, and then I’d write