Searching high and low from left to right, frantically spinning in circles, it seems as though happiness is found nowhere. “You’re so special to me,” he would say. “I love you,” she would say. Silently whispering, “That doesn’t matter,” I would respond.
Staring out into the rays throughout the gleaming oceanic blue, birds chirp and gusts of wind caress my warm cheeks. I’m standing alone with my pen and pages spiraled into perfection as the cover written in pristine loops engrave, “Notebook“.
I rest my back against a tree, as the shadow of the leaves hover over my body blocking the burning sun away from my skin. Opening the fragile pages, I flip to to an empty one that’s waiting for the black scribbles to be released from my shaky hand. Pressing the ink onto the pages as my hand glides from left to right, sentences form into paragraphs creating an endless notion of chapters holding secrets and the inner despair I carry. Line after line, expressions verbalize onto what was once only plain black lines on white. Growing up, I believed the world only processed one or the other yet I’ve now learned that between the black and white, it locks the detailed emotions that cannot be released.
Looping letters together results in the distressed black ink written within the pages. As my fingers clench on the white, my nervous hands smudge the lettering. Breaths easing in and out through my body closes the book, and I stand back up from the tree and walk away from the shadow of the leaves. Gazing out to the low-lit sun, the sky no longer blares the oceanic blue I once saw, but the pink, orange, warm semi-circle brushing against the horizon.
I walk away, clasping my notebook with my pen shoved between the spiral. Peacefully, in between my fingers includes the perturbed writings of the white pages holding the pure truth. My pure truth.