I've filled a dozen journals in my short life. My sister pulls them off the shelf and reads them aloud for entertainment and sometimes I still have the grace to blush over my highschool gushings. But, since coming of age, I don't feel the urgency to make record of every handsome face I pass on the sidewalk, or mention every needlework project I begin. Once in a while I want to make note of an interesting acquaintence made or jot an inspiring quote. My current journal is a little red book I bought at Hastings. The cover has a window cut in it, framing an image of an heirloom rose. It's very pretty and considering I paid $15 for it, I really should go ahead and finish it before starting a new journal. But I won't. This is the 21st century and my composition is aided by the delete button.
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