At work today I opened a cabinet, looking for some paper clips. And there they were. No, not the paper clips, the notebooks. Not binders or clipboards, but spiral-bound notebooks with stiff cardboard covers. They weren't very big - maybe 4x6 inches.
I just had to take one down and flip open the cover. I admired the first page, blank save for a series of horizontal lines just begging for the chance to hold up streams of words and sentences and ideas and paragraphs and notes and ...
That first, inviting sheet was not alone, either. It stood ready at the head of an entire half-inch-thick army of like pages, each waiting its turn to fight against the forces of wordlessness that hold countless thoughts captive. Unwritten, unspoken, unformed (and even as-yet-unthought) thoughts, imprisoned in unexpression.
The pristine emptiness of new notebooks promises that songs and stories and sketches are not yet dead in this world. That a universe of as-yet-undiscovered words might still find a place to lay down, to play, to work, to live, to love ...
I closed the little notebook and returned it to its place in the supply cabinet. A little sadly, in fact. Its empty pages, so full of promise, will probably never give life to anything more exciting than scribbled phone messages.
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1 comment:
Sounds like someone needs to get busy writing! :-)
Pam
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