Hoarding Blankness

Dear You,
I keep starting this and writing a line but I end up deleting it after five minutes.
Maybe it’s because I’m a little rusty with this whole thing with words.
It’s been quite a while since I really wrote, so perhaps I’ll start again with a letter to you.

You know, I used to hate typing things out.
I was quite attached to that scritchy scratchy sound the pen made on the thick pages of the diary I bought  years ago. That diary is still in my cupboard, all bound with yellow-green thread with marigold petals embedded in it’s pages.It still smells like the mountains of my home state and holds so much naivety that it’s embarrassing.
But I don’t write in that diary anymore.

In fact I haven’t written on paper in ages and it’s almost as if I’ve made a hobby out of collecting beautiful diaries I’ll probably never use.
No, I’m not a hoarder and I don’t compulsively buy them. It’s just that they happen to fall into my lap whether I want them to or not.
Almost each one goes ungratefully empty, save perhaps a thank you note, my name or maybe a hasty poem scribbled on the first couple of pages.

I’ve gotten comfortable with typing things out now though.

Maybe I’ve stopped writing on paper because paper seems more permanent, more like evidence and is a more tangible memory of things I’d be better off not remembering.

Things I write on screens are easy to erase and easier to forget, and I don’t have to deal with the horror of confronting messy thoughts spilled somewhere when I’m sorting out my cupboard.

But I still save up these diaries. Keep them tucked away in a corner on the middle shelf of my cupboard and promise myself that I’ll come back to writing in them someday.
Always convince myself to not give the empty ones away because, come on, the orange one was a token, the white one was a prize and the pink one was a gift.

And well, maybe I do have a bit of a hoarding problem.
But I promise I’m trying to work on it.

Until We Meet Again.


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