They are the only ones that know me. I am the only one who wrote in them. Five filled up notebooks with crinkled pages and doodled up covers. Five which reside in my briefcase. A lifetime’s worth of feelings to remember. When I open the notebooks, the memories rush back.
My emotions run rampant in the pages. No one else can ever see; they can’t have those pieces of me. They contain everything: the things that made me laugh hysterically to the things that made me too sad to do anything but write about them. This is how the pages read.
I remember getting lost creating the poems, drawings, doodles, and lists that are so abundant in their pages. As I look at them, I remember how I felt when I scribbled things down as they came to my mind. I can still hear the scratch, scratch, scratch of the pen across the paper. The pages turn.
When my hand aches too much to keep writing, I close the notebook and think to myself there’s always tomorrow to start a brand new day. A brand new, clean white page. When there’s no more left to write on, there’s a bright new notebook with clean, straight pages without doodles on the cover. The first five I will never forget as number six’s pages are filled one by one.