The other night, when it was so warm, I started a private journal. I sat by candlelight trying to conserve energy and started filling the pages of one of the many blank journals that fills my bedside table. It’s just a plain journal with its dark blue cover, nothing with a golden binding or a beautifully designed cover. I had hoped to find something beautiful for the words, but then I suppose the words inside are what matter. As in all things, the real beauty is not on the surface but in this case, within the pages.
It is rather amazing what pours from you when you know it’s only for your eyes, or perhaps the eyes of just one other. There is a freedom in that for me, a freedom to say things in a more relaxed manner, less writing style, almost as if I am having a conversation. I filled up several pages before my eyes got the better of me and I hope to write many more.
I may end up writing the words and transferring them as I found hand writing my thoughts may work well at the time, but should they be passed on to the one they are meant for, he may never be able to read them. I only hope that once complete, the words speak clearly, telling a story if you will, from the beginning. I also hope they weave something beautiful, something that will carry memories, dreams and perhaps a little bit of me, to the reader of those pages.