Random day to day life in the eyes of a Journal....I'll make it work somehow!
The Opening
Tis the first day of my birth. My pages freshly pressed between my covers and my spine unbroken.
Alas I am grasped in the hands of an egar writer, I can disern from her touch the need to put pen to paper. She caresses my front and runs her fingers down my spine.
The cover that I have hidden my paper behind is lost, my insides are exposed for all to see.
Carefully I am placed upon her desk, and with pen in hand she smooths the papers surface and writes in me for the first time.
My once plain and ordinary page is slowly turned into a work of literary art.
My first words are, Dear Journal,
The ink upon my page is wet and cold, it sinks beneath my surface just far enough that my next page remains fresh clean and untouched. Where the ink sits my paper crinkles ever so slightly. The feeling of her cursive as it flows furthur down the page leaving an odd sensation in its quake.
Her next line reads, What should I call you? What kind of Journal shall you be?
If I could reply to her my words would not sound as sweet but I would reply and it would say in my own cursive. I do not care what you call me, any name shall suffice. But the Journal I wish to be is the one that you hold most dear and find most precious. The Journal that you write in to your hearts content and that you spill your secrets to so that the burden can be lifted from your sholders.
I am simply a Journal, I am her Journal, and so I wish to remain forever and for always.Thus without answering her questions she replaces my cover to the way it once was. Picking me up she places me in a cold dark box and I slide. I shall remain there until she returns for me. For she is mine and I am hers.