One might think that a simple, complacent notebook costing a mere ninety nine cents at your local Office Depot could play no part in the everyday person’s life; but alas, this simple, spiral bound object of initial emptiness fills a niche in my life so enormous that without one at hand, I go comatose. For a notebook is an appendage to me, an extension of myself that I must carry with me. Without one, I would loose a pivotal conduit towards my subconscious; with one, well, I could rule the world.
I am an advocate, yes, of the humble spiral bound. I collect them, as a matter of fact. I have dozens, all varying from different sizes, shapes and patterns, each one containing the ever parallel and enticing lines in which I can write on. The spiral bound is common and unassuming, therefore perfect to write down private matters of scandalous expose without it being obvious to the ever spying eyes of the public. It is also casual, casual enough for me to flip a page from the preceding description of my latest beau to shorthand some history notes.
I, myself, carry around two notebooks with me at all times. One is a Moleskine, the trademark little black book that Hemmingway and Twain used to compose various novels and poems; it’s also the notebook commonly used by men when storing the phone numbers of women they score with. The Moleskine, which is serious in nature, is used to write down my most innermost thoughts comprising of the “why’s” and “how’s” of life. It’s where I jot down ideas of inspiration and of criticism, and for me to remember what life is all about.
The second notebook is that of a common spiral bound- this I use to write down the common and quirky things I ponder, such as what brand of banana I happened to bring to lunch today, or what quotes that I spied written on the girls bathroom. Both are my inner and outer shells of character. Without those two notebooks, I would loose sight of the what is and isn’t and my body would be the target of hideous black ink stains. And we don’t want that.
One might ponder about the effectiveness of always holding a notebook. Well, once I was walking to the local Starbucks and on my way, I composed in my mind, a most intricate short story about how I would like to incarcerate a certain someone. A certain someone who should not be mentioned here, but who indeed should be incarcerated. I then stopped by the shade of a tree and wrote down, in my spiral bound, the beginning, plot and ending. I shut the book and continued on.
Without my notebook, and with my poor short term memory, that story would have been lost. I would not have had the opportunity to preserve that minute’s thought and it would have been subjected to an endless wandering in nothingness. And of course, it’s always nice to write down whatever musings a mad woman may have.
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