I like beautiful things.
I bought a journal recently, with a blue cover and slightly yellowed, blank pages because I thought it beautiful. I bought it with a gift card because my penny-pinching self did not think that such an indulgence should put pressure on my personal funds. But now I am writing again. I am writing about my addictions, I am writing about bread, I am writing about dreams and ghost tours. I am writing. I am tracing my hand and drawing abstract surges of life. I am writing poetry that will be read after I am dead and some that will be posted on this blog. I am writing the alphabet in my best penmanship after writing a sloppy page filled with scribbles of ideas.
Into the wild.
The wild of the dream.
Lasso that dream to a hover
Just above the ground.
Let it pull practicality to its feet
And push doubt to its knees.
I have always loved to write. But now I know I love to write in something that is beautiful.x