...Sometimes in life we are all just waiting for a moment to start in...
There is a room in my home and in that room there is a bag of books; books of the handwritten variety. Its nice to have them waiting there and sometimes I imagine to myself that they have a smaller, younger version of myself playing out the memories I had found important enough to record. This happens in a Harry Potter moving picture sort of way, of course. I love the textures of their covers, I love the innocence of the very old ones. You know, the ones with the names of past loves scrawled on the back cover (newest at the bottom, all others carefully crossed out when they had reached their expiration dates.) I used to think a boy would come and read them all, discover that I was a brilliant linguist and poet and fall head over heels in infatuation with the voice I only hear in my head. .
So here I am, 23, post-childbirth, filled with ideas and in need of infinite pages to fill with them. If you're reading this... and I don't think you are, maybe we can learn together? It could be fun!
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