Prompt: Choice post
There it was, as it had been for the last eight months. My black, leather bound, and covered in a thick layer of dust; journal. Of course the inside was completely and utterly empty, as i was too nervous to write in it. I was tired of writing my thoughts on loose leaf, and the book looked at me as if it was praying for ideas dressed in ink to be written on its many pages. I picked it up. I picked up my pen. I dusted off my journal, and started writing. Nothing important, nothing special, simply my feelings, thoughts and questions. It felt right, to be writing again.
The book was almost half full, it was bittersweet. I didn’t think much of my accomplishments in the form of stories, paragraphs, and poems, I had no reason to. As the days went on, I was less reluctant to write in it. In fact I picked it up at least twice a day. This book was my escape to all that existed beyond wonderland, oz, narnia, and all worlds in between. The book helped.
Only a couple of pages were left, and i was as hesitant to write as the snow was to finally melt and let in spring. But I wrote; as a survival method of sorts. As I turned to the last page, I couldn’t think of a single word to put down, so I doodled a few flowers. Those turned into drawings of animals, and buildings and people and skies until I had no room left to squeeze in another daisy.
So, I headed downtown to what wasn’t the bookshop but the art supply store, and purchased a journal of a different kind. This one was less bittersweet to start, and much easier to complete.