The idea of journaling both intrigues and taunts me.
Whether I am in a bookstore, stationary shop or gift store, journals of all designs, sizes and colors lure me in with their enchanting promises of inspirational stories and provocative thoughts.
Enthralled, I make my way over to the shelves of journals. Handling each with care, I admire the texture and design of the cover and inspect the quality of the paper tucked within. I listen to its whispered promises.
Unable to resist, I am taken with one or two muses and make my way to the register, excited at the prospect of filling the pages with fodder for thought.
“This journal is special,” I believe. “This journal will travel with me. This journal will inspire…”
Sadly, this is where my tale ends. My ship, lured in by the Sirens, crashes into the rocks, as yet another journal graces my shelves collecting dust and the growing mold of false promises.
Now and again, as I pass by, I can hear their music taunting me once more…
“…there is room in the margins/for the pencil to go lazy and daydream/in circles and figure eights,/or produce some illustrations,/like Leonardo in his famous codex -/room for a flying machine,/the action of a funnel,/a nest of pulleys,/and a device that is turned by water…” (Journal, Billy Collins)
“One day,” I whisper back. “One day.”