poetic. When I see journals in a store. Not the cheesed-up tacked-up, pink-puked-up sparkly-alien-eyed ones though. Those unicorns belong in a Candyland far away, one that has never existed and yet has always been high on fumes. Definitely NOT the ones with that plastered on the cover. Especially since those are always always married to the plastic lock-and-key (the ones sick on bruised-up pepto-bismo) claiming to keep the scribbles “safe” inside. No, those make me gag.
But. Take a chance. Venture outside Walmart, get onto/into your bike/car/sidewalk and go miles and years and light-years to another universe – then. Walk into the store where the bell tickles the door, where the air smells. Nice. Like lavender. And just touch. With every sense you have. Let your eyes linger on the covers printed with sketches. Repetition. Images. Nothing. Everything. And then just imagine. Think of the possibilities! The blank pages being filled with your profound, prophetic, messy, good-for-nothing and important-for-everything thoughts, your pray-ers… your mis-takes. Your scribbles. Scribble-y-doo. Your Mona Davids. And YES, your genius. And yet, it will all be dust. You will be dust. One day. Today. We are but a memory and a dream.
You will be rushed-for-time yet frozen-in-time. Teetering. Like a shy 7-year-old, standing before the counter – finger tips tightly pressed onto the salty edge about to ask for a kiddy cone, back when McDonald’s had those. None of your thoughts will matter. And all of your thoughts will. Exist. You will make an impact worth living for. And you will be nothing worth living for. But you are everything worth dying for.
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