I'm Sorry Dear Journal 18; It's Not Me It's You

I’m sorry dear Journal Number 18 but we have to cut our relationship short. It’s not you. It’s me. No wait. It is you. It’s not me. You left me wanting more. You undercut my ideas by having me adhere to your stupid lines. Your shrunken-down format compared to the previous journals seems to also limit the potential of the ideas I want to store inside you. The more pages I fill, the more dread I feel; having to juggle the fountain pen and the thick but little book trying to get something down without having it turn into unreadable scribblings. And it often did turn into scribblings: scribblings I didn’t want to re-read meaning my ability to combine and ruminate diminishes as well. Journal Number 17 and 16 before that performed their duty flawlessly. Why do you keep resisting my pen? And where is your flap at the back of the journal that allows me to store stamps and torn-out notes temporarily transferred from other papers? Yes I know, it’s cool to be able to literally tie a knot with…