I reached the end of my notebook today. It is leather-bound with replaceable paper. Since a year ago or so I used only moleskins (or a cheaper variant), and have quite a collection of them sitting on my shelf, holding weird thoughts, ideas and past versions of myself. They date all the way back to my first day of art school where my handwriting was smaller and lines thinner. I found, however, the cover either too hard or too soft and wished for something which I trusted and depended upon, but that could be refilled once full. The creative process is a fragile one. Ideas are delicate and ethereal things, birthed in thought and often too abstract for the spoken word.
I empty and replace the paper. I choose for the dotted kind, hoping for it to give me some kind of guidance, yet refrains from steering me. This moment holds excitement; such promise of what you might create and what could break the newness of the page. Who will I be when these pages are full, and what will have filled them up?