There’s a certain kind of blank book you could get in Chinatown that had something more to it. It says DIARY on the spine in gold. It comes in at least three different colour combinations. It’s covered in a shimmering, patterned cloth. The pages are thin and crispy with soft clouds and ducks and oceans and ships on every page. EVERY PAGE! They’re ancient seeming things. It feels like they’ve already lived a life somehow and when they get into your hands- it’s like what you write never fails to mean something.
I was working on this project all about the secret, self-deprecating and constructed world that my diary allows me to have and it turns out that this one that I have is the last of it’s kind. It’s over. These relics cannot be bought in stores in Toronto at this time. This seemed very significant. I figured that it meant that I should finally grow up and stop writing down the silly things that I do. Instead, I should write novels, make mind-maps or calculate something about grants or taxes. I went for a little black book with white paper that has NO pictures on it whatsoever and is also too thick. It is a decidedly more mature choice. But it is a very juvenile idea that this dumb blank book is going to make me a more mature person.
But, it’s funny that I have all of these things that come from my mind are being held between two covers and kept far away from you.
