leather bound, with snaps and a simple utensil.
I love it.
I hate it.
I love the way it looks, the way it feels in my hands.
I love the secure snaps that, when opened, give way to a sleek thought keeper.
The possibilities are endless.
I hate the first page.
I always hesitate.
What will this booklet become?
Will I be bound to write in each day, then guilt-ride myself when I miss a few? I know I'll give up.
Will I doodle and surely enough, not be satisfied at the product? My drawing skills are few.
Shall I divulge my deepest secrets and let it become a vulnerable lock-box to my dreams? I fear to be found.
I want to write.
Write and not have to erase, to delete.
I want to go at the page with purpose and poise;
with grace that delivers that which is rare and...beautiful.
I want it to be mine.
Are my words worth a penny? A thought? A moment?
Considering the first page fills me with hate.
But I love my journal.
What will it become? And what of me?