not sleeping anymore

small pieces of paper

I buy myself journals. A justifiable purchase because I am a writer, I tell myself. I haven’t written a damn thing in over a year, but I still buy myself journals. I am not hasty about it either. I don’t see a nice cover and buy on impulse. I am not an impulse shopper. I look through the journal sections of every bookstore. I carefully inspect. I fan the pages; I knead the cover. I pick them up and put them back down. I go home empty handed. Then one day, I find myself staring into myself, in the cover of a leather bound, a velvet bound, a paper bound, journal. I make the purchase. I think about what I will write. I open the cover and bend the spine; I press my palm into the first page. The tip of my pen meets the paper.
I never write in my journals. They sit on my bookcase next to the books I haven’t read. They lie face down on the shelf beside my bed and get knocked over every time I reach for my glasses. I fret over every shape, line, and letter against the page. I think, but only about nothing. My journals are empty.
Since I have moved, I finally find myself thinking about something other than nothing. I think all the time. I jot notes to myself on small pieces of paper to avoid the stress of losing the only thoughts I think I will ever have. I am terrified I will stop thinking. I still come home and walk by my empty journals. I still knock them over every night as I put my glasses down.

posted by d @ 9:18 PM