I'm crammed between two pieces of paper surrounded by even more paper in a cardboard sandwich. Yeah, I'm stuck inside a notebook. I don't mind it too much, mostly. It's dark, yeah, but it's familiar. A sudden light appears as the journal opens and they remove me, their bookmark, click my eraser twice, and handle the grip they put on me a month ago as they think about what they want to say.
The words come to them slowly at first, a sentence at a time. Move. Pause. Move. Pause. Move move pause. Move move move pause. And then the words are flowing like a stream from their head, and they smile, as I glide across the page, leaving graphite behind me in the pattern that they identify as letters and words and continue on, unfazed, occasionally pausing only to generate more graphite to write with. I'm flying, dancing across the page endlessly. And then, just as soon as it's there, the words are gone, and they put me down on the page, inspecting their work, trying to figure out what should be said next.
They look away, and I know that they do not know what they should or shouldn't say next, meaning that I will be put away again. I'm tucked into the binding and darkness envelops me until the words come to them again. Yeah, I suppose it's tedious, but the moments when I dance make it all worth it.
ns 15.158.61.51da2
