A friend gave this journal to me for Christmas some time in high school (way back when flip phones were cool), and I remember thinking what an odd gift it was. But after graduation, when the small yellow writing tablet I'd been scribbling poetry in ran out of pages, I dug this spiral-bound stack of paper out of a drawer and kept writing.
For nearly seven years I wrote in this book, sometimes laying it aside for months, and sometimes flipping to a new page every day. It contains more memories and emotion than any diary I ever kept, and in far fewer words. You've seen some of its contents spilled on this blog -- all of the poems I've posted originated from this journal's pages.
I knew that I couldn't end it with just any poem, and during a solitary walk this evening I found, if not perfect, sufficient words to fill the last page. It's the end, and yet, somehow, it feels like the beginning.
here's to hope--
to having a voice,
to being a voice
the blank page of invitation
a line, a letter, a word,
a soul on paper
That's beautiful, Serena :)
ReplyDeleteThank you, Ally!
DeleteI love a blank page as well. Beautiful writing :)
ReplyDeleteThank you! I almost always want to write something when I have blank page in front of me, which is sometimes (ok, most of the time) very frustrating if I don't have anything to write...
DeleteThat's a perfect poem for the end a journal. It's beautiful and inspiring!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Candice! I'm glad you liked it. :)
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