Do we really deserve them?!

Sometimes I can feel myself press so hard on you, I can feel myself soften, smile and giggle. Other times too fast, too slow, too lazily, too ambitiously. How do you handle all these mixed feelings? How do you handle me? One time I'll throw you across the room, half way done, then collect you like six days later, as an after thought, or an oops thought. Other times I'll put you so close, hug you, cuddle you, place you safely under my pillow! The worst of times I'll sprawl shit on you, then pull you apart and on really bad days torch you.

Do you ever miss the parts of you that I rip apart? I met you when I was like 6, now I'm 22 and I have filled a whole library of you and your friends. You have met all of me. The darkest pits of me, the most beautiful parts of me, the in betweens. You get through my head, you dust out the windows up there, you draw the curtains up there to air a bit, you plant flowers up there and take the good and the bad parts to yourself, safely, sometimes with consent, most times without.

I am sorry we do not speak the same language, I am sorry you do not speak mine, but you can't hear me either, and you just sit in the shelf and hold it all in. How does it feel to watch me pace and write so fast and wet your parts with tears and you can't flap your pages to hug me! How does it feel to watch me tick all my dreams and manifestations, with my face turning red with excitement and you can't flap your pages to clap for me? Is it's awkward when I write my dirty secrets all over, so fast and so mischievously and you cannot slap my face or flap your eyes closed like (Yikes! Second hand embarrassment!).

Dear tiny notebook, I wish I knew your best color so I could never use all the colors wishing that one of them is your favorite. I wish I could tell how hard or how soft you'd want me to press on you while I write. I wish on everything you'd tell me when you think I was my happiest and tell me to be just that. I wish we spoke the same language. I don't know how it feels to be garbaged in and not garbaged out, must be tough. If I came to your notebook world, I swear I'd get you a therapist, you've been through so much. Also tell me a little secret, do y'all date out there? I'd recommend my brown notebook when I was 20, she's the happiest I ever was!!

You've met me, you've met sinners, saints, fools, big geniuses, old people, small kids who can't hold a pen right. You break your selfishness to listen to parts of us, to all of us. You've met gentleness at its best, love, warmth, honestly, kindness, danger, torture, fear, failure, crime. You not only open eyes, but you open eyes of the heart and the soul, how romantical! May it be known, that anytime I'll ever be brought to the danger of losing you, or the danger of not being able to write on you, then I'll find myself to submit and surrender to the most morbid of circumstances, death. Crazy but I would rather die so that it becomes that I was not the hero, but you were, after all. (I wish you'd whisper to me right now that if I ever needed to talk or not to talk, I could find an empty page in you to put it all down, or to stay silent and just stare down...and that way you'll hold each of my tears...)

I always thought humans do not deserve animals. I mean, has a dog or a cat ever looked at you so cutely and you thought they are not of this universe? Well, talking about things we don't deserve, notebooks just fall closely below animals. Humans don't deserve notebooks... I teared a lil😭