Sunday, March 8, 2015
Ink to the page
This could be an ode to Barnes and Noble. Truly, one of my favorite places to be. There are two somewhat close to me. One in Manassas, where I used to travel more frequently, and the other is in Tyson's. Yesterday, as I was zipping past the mega mecca while on the Beltway. I saw a glimpse of, what felt like, hundreds of people doing exactly what I waned to do. Browse titles, fill their arms with classics, and sip their ever-tasty Starbucks coffee. I love to lose hours in that store. I say losing because I never realize how long I have actually been in there until I step outside and it is no longer illuminated when I entered in the mid-morning. I could never have enough books. I have a lot of them, don't get me wrong, but I could always use some more. Suggestions welcome!
But I meant this to be about journals. As I'm browsing the clearance sections, as if whispering for me to take a closer look, my body is drawn to the wall of journals. They are beautiful. Awaiting to be filled with ink. Memories, thoughts, questions-- all for the taking. I don't always buy a journal-- I always buy a book. In fact, I have many journals around my house that have yet to be penned. Some are full. Well, almost full. Some were for traveling-- I never felt right about adding other things to a particular travel journal. My most complete journal is from my study abroad time spent in Cambridge. Even when I think back to those memories, I don't add those thoughts to that journal. I guess I could? -- Something magically just happened while I was scrubbing this. Something I will explain in a later post! I think its magical, the gods would probably just say coincidental. I digress. Journals. I admire them, but need to use them more.
I'm putting my boots on and venturing out to Barnes and Noble.