She's forgotten all about this little space.
She's off on Instagram, being instant.
Perhaps. But not so glamorously.
It's been told her little phone is only made for little things.
Still, a presence has been made & connections too, at that.
What a delightful little world of creatives.
It's true, I miss my posts, stories and poems.
Writing them, even if no one reads.
Because, that's not the goal.
I can be unabashedly me, but differently than in my own journal.
The little journal, which I mistreated by accidentally spilling water on it.
The bottom corner of the spine was quite wet, leaving but a trace of blurred ink from past thoughts & musings. I am torn between being taken with the additional rusticity and aging of the journal, and losing words.
I considered going back over the unfinished patchy sentences, and trying to finish them. But I have always had a pet hate for when a pen has run out, and one can see the dented embossed lines from where the writer was unable to write further, then replaced the blank patterns with new ink.
This never goes down well.
So it sits open, by my pot belly fire, and perhaps this will dry in the night, and become something new.
I have several journals in the making, and will share here, in a few days.
|my daily journal|