There's nothing quite as satisfying as building a book. Even painting doesn't quite compare. I finish a painting, I scan it, I put it in a book and that's it. But these books... I have them stacked together on my desk and I can't stop touching them. Piling and repiling them.
I like flipping them open, turning them over, touching the covers. Part of it is definitely the possibility of each one. Will they find a new home someday? Will someone fill them with amazing memories and colours and words? Will they end up staying here?
Blank journals blow my mind. If I open a blank page now, I am looking at the future. Parallel dimensions open up and I can see myself writing. Something. Maybe I'm a few weeks older, maybe a few years. Maybe something horrible has happened, maybe something wonderful. This must be what it feels like to go back in time, open a journal and find all of the pages blank, all of my memories have disappeared.
How would someone else fill a journal like this? Endless doodles? A jumble of words? Pasted movie tickets? Spraypaint?
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