Homeless thoughts, thoughtless homes.

My thoughts are a little homeless at the moment; I’ve said goodbye to yet another companion, this one endowed with thick, luxurious covers marked and embossed in golden motifs, regal against a smooth, creamy red. Its pages were pre-aged for comfort and delightfully thick, carrying a certain soothing weight to them.

And the size. Perfect for the crook of an elbow or for tucking at your side. Ideal to hold one-handed, to hide from curious eyes, for writing on uneven surfaces.

The new one is a bit too large in comparison. My thoughts swim in a sort of emptiness, with no lines to bring ideas together, to give them any kind of sense. Just an endless ocean of blank pages; a sort of void. It feels like a stripped-bare apartment. No touch of home. No cosiness. Just four blank walls and a lot of space that I am at a loss at how to fill.

Incidentally, the new WordPress editor feels the same now. Too open, too vast. Too much white. I feel a little overwhelmed somehow by its design; sometimes, I find that I am grappling to fill all this blank space with something, to make this blankness disappear. All this space is intimidating. I need corners, nooks and crannies; places to hide, to burrow into. I need bumps and dents in which to tuck my stories, somewhere safe where I can keep my words.

But well, about the new notebook. It’s no surprise it feels so impersonal: it’s just a heap of neat, spiral-bound A4 pages and was originally a company notebook. It’s not faring very well in the creative writing business. Office notebooks aren’t good homes for daydreams and words that only make sense upside-down.

Yes, yes.

It all makes sense now.

So maybe I’ll downsize, who knows. And keep these white, blank pages to draw these colonial-style houses I long to put to paper.


Note: While I am infinitely grateful for even having paper to write on and an internet connection to share this, I will admit to being a little bit of a notebook snob. It is what it is.

Listening to :

The Notebook

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You ever get one of these gifts that you know you will never be able to use? It’s like one of those things that are too beautiful, too pure to be dirtied by world-weary hands. No piece of my writing feels worthy enough to warrant spilling ink on this beauty. It would feel like using Excalibur to cut up potatoes.

…But I’ll end up having to use it one day. After all, if I’ve learned one thing from “Le Petit Prince”, it probably lies in this: “You’re beautiful, but you’re empty…One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put under glass, since she’s the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.”

It is the idea that something is precious not because it is perfect, but because it is yours, truly, in every sense of the word. So I’ll spill ink on these pages, it will probably smudge, too. I will write entire paragraphs and strike them out. I will probably doodle absent-mindedly over one of the pictures. One day a page might even get a little ripped up, and I’ll probably not be able to shelter it from the rain when I carry it with me. But then it’ll truly be mine. No one will have anything like it and in the world, there will exist only one of those.

…So much for a simple notebook.