Three cramped fingers squeeze the tip of my pen. I mark down every word hard while wiping it with the outside of my hand. The pen is cracking like doors in winter, but we’re getting there. One by one out of my head and onto paper.

When I wasn’t allowed to go into rollercoasters yet, I’d write and draw about anything. Dinosaurs making each other’s life miserable, kids playing soccer. The arms of the players starting right above the waist. An occasional sticker on the front of the book, perhaps even a stamp in the shape of a cloud.

The struggles of a little boy trying to make friends. This one time I wrote that our teacher wasn’t that cool with me stuffing another kids’ mouth with sand on a hot summer day. Small and meaningless is it may sound, it found its way into my pocket size notebook. My parents would behold what I had made with pride. Little did I know, I didn’t care. I was just writing.

Through the years I kept collecting these books, out of sweet nostalgia. Watch how long-departed trains left station, in search for new adventures. While flipping through faded pages I came to think that I became the librarian of my own past. But nothing is for rent here.

A diary was never something for me. Something that I want to would like to keep as a habit, has to stay open-ended till some extend. This feels like an obligation already. I would rather have a week- or month book. If it feels like a cold wind is whirling through me during the day, I’d still force myself to thing. As if it were a workout. Every hole, whatever , is made with a perfect round bullet. Sometimes you’re the bullet, other times you’re the hole. On days like these I am the bullet and I pinch through walls.

But that little boys wants more eventually, so there came more notebooks. Some of them for their mere beauty. Others because they are made from bleach-free paper. Most of them aren’t really that convenient, with their curling backs and rusty staples. But they have to be saved, it is the road to a clear mind. Words will nevertheless keep on coming. It’ll never be calligraphy, since I am typing in Georgia 12 anyway right now. So it will be readable. Hand me a paving stone and I will eat a haiku out of it, if I have to. And my teeth stay in one place.

’Cause I’m afraid to forget, to lose. Lose the things that evaporate once they come out. Volatile like ammonia with the ability of being as stifling. But in general they are not and they tend to fill up empty rooms. Words about dinosaurs and sand, about first kisses and bullies. To be held tightly by crooked backs and rusty staples.

But reading those words casts a shadow on the act of writing them. As long as people keep reading. Cars go into maintenance, the soul scrambles with words on paper. Well, these won’t go anywhere anymore, as long as they are read.