Funny thing words on paper. Words strung together by me and
accumulated in one spot, one space. They make an indent on each page and leave
smudges on my hand where my pinkie and palm have glazed over the newly formed
words almost like sealing them to the paper- sticking them there so they won’t
fall off. I love flipping through notebooks in which I have written, especially
full ones. To feel the words on the pages, to hear the extra crinkle that only
comes with the fullness of pen touching paper. I can’t wait until this notebook
is full. It will be better than anything my hands have graced and turned and
glided over. It will be better because I will know it is mine. I cannot help
but flip through the pages and pages filled with my thoughts, my musings, my
infatuations, my self-centeredness, myself. It’s like brail to my blind heart.
My fingers read the emotion behind each page without ever recognizing or
acknowledging a single word.
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