My new, red journal.

This story begins in the middle: in the middle of the week, in the middle of my life, and in the middle of a transition in my life. i had hoped this page would be at the end of traversing darkness, wandering, and unsurety. It is a beginning, however. I have yet to write an end, and maybe, in terms of life, I never will in any definitive terms. I begin this way, toward something new, leaving the past behind. Such is life, a trek forward.

I feel better with passing weeks, distance, this continent holds no past trauma. Knowing good, caring, even traditional people keeps my days full and promising. It is four years from the first page of my last journal. Pray this book teaches me near as much. Searching through its pages makes me realize how far I have come, how strong I have been and may needs be tomorrow. Writing sideways helps me understand the profound power of optical illusions. I scrawl this page quickly, crudely. I mark it mine, I softly stroke it to wakening. We begin this way...

This journal, calling to me as a siren, marking me, burns a scarlet letter in my loudest thoughts. I wonder when or if the vivid color will fade; will I then not sense the pull? I am content with the timing of this new vessel, not that spurring writing quickly forward clicks as clockwork. I fee compelled to write, and this feeling does not always surge forward with a topic. The circular motion of the pen has little inherent worth as an exercise. The thoughts fill my head even when not recorded tangibly. Something, however, changes the quality of thoughts when compounded into an activity. Laid out before me in a line, the visibility grounds and slows my thought direction. I expound, rather than leap without a safety. My recorded thoughts take on a completely new shape and direction when spread in front of me, scanned with eyes, felt between fingers. I long for this one tether, I feel content to let it hold me. So, even when I don't scrawl, I yearn for this specific action daily, hourly. I hear the light scratching of my journaling pen in my future, which I know may never happen as a now.