I open my journal to write my thoughts.
The lines, instead of falling into a neat cursive hand, elongate themselves into birds and flowers and animals… It’s like my language is finding a different story… It’s not interested in what happened yesterday, or other long drawn out tales of living, like a good journal should be.
It is more interested in what fills my heart.
I question its timing… Like, can’t you wait till I get better paper… Better pens… A well-thought out composition? But it doesn’t care… So a scene pops up on ruled paper, I know it’s not going anywhere, I know it’ll stay within the folds of this diary to be forgotten soon, like the hundreds of others that have pushed the words out of the way and grabbed hold of the visuals… Quite like an erstwhile Charlie Chaplin movie.