How is it possible that I have written in you so infrequently as of late?
Why are so many of your pages blindingly empty?
Have I been sucked into the digital age, further than I would care to admit?
How am I no longer drawn regularly to your hard red cover,
your crisp, beige pages – smooth under my hand –
beckoning me to fill your blank pages with pencil and ink?
When did my emotions begin to spill out onto a cold and sterile keyboard
more readily than through the pen?
When did I begin having the need to make an earnest effort to visit you?
To be reminded to write?
Trunks full of journals with every page used, notebooks,
loose-leaf paper in 3-ring binders spilling over with words and thoughts and feelings
say it hasn’t always been so.
I am so sorry I’ve allowed myself to be stolen away from you,
that I have neglected you my dear and trusty old friend.
Yes – I wrote this in you before transcribing it into my digital blog 🙂