Course grain grates against the finger tips, the paper seems to have so much depth, but yet scratch the surface and you are right on through.
Flicking the pages like a used deck of cards the level of intimidation increases as all the blank pages seem to be staring right back at you.
The slight gust of wind the turning pages create wakes you from your half slumber,your attention is drawn to the instrument in your hand, a pen by any other name but its so much more than just that, its the creator of worlds, the inventor of dreams, the translator of thoughts into words.
You cradle it and in a way it cradles you, it carrys all your emotions as you yourself do, its a permanent partnership as long as you pick it up.
When the words start to flow them tumble out in an avalanche , you fight to maintain their speed and avoid all errors, you never know when your memory will play some tricks on you and mix those words around.
You come to the end of the page, fingers slightly stiff from the overtight grip on the pen, one page out of many of course but each one is there to be filled and hopefully most likely will.
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