Stan and His Blank Pages

Stan Salanport was a kind, sensitive man. He always wore a proverbial suit of armor though, as he wasn't all that comfortable seeming "weak", though he approached most strangers in a timid, shy manner. He'd been hurt most by the people closest too him. This made him weary of new people and settings.

Stan loved walks on his local trail. It combined two of his favorite things, excerise and nature. He also enjoyed the passing waves and smiles from the other patrons of the walking trail. This gave him at least some social interaction, enough to get him through some tough stretches of days. There were a couple of those homemade library stands along the trail; the ones that have books available to take and swap for the public. He'd passed these a handful of times and always sort of scanned for anything interesting. Stan had only actually taken one book back with him, yet he always looked in, as if there were magnets pulling his eyes over to his right. Today felt like one of those normal days to Stan, but he noticed something different inside that miniature home to two rows of books.

What caught his attention was this little black book, pressed against the glass as if stuck with adhesive...or being pulled by magnets. There was nothing spectacularly interesting about the book, other than feeling drawn to it. That and the fact that the book looked like it was a monthly planner, or someone's journal. He never used either one himself. They always seemed like things only people with their live's together utilized. That certainly didn't feel like him.

Stan was lost in his wondering of why someone would leave either one in this mini-library that he didn't realized he had stopped walking and was standing with his arm stretched out touching the door handle, but there was no movement. He came back to himself and followed his curiosty. He pulled the book out and fanned through the pages mimicking back the sound of the leaves overhead. It was a journal. Though he didn't notice aby actual writing on the pages, Stan felt flush with the embarrasment for the stranger who had left their private thoughts for people to read. "What courage," he mouthed. He thumbed through a few pages, much slower this time, discovering the quarter-inch thick journal was completely blank with the exception of the first page.

"6/13/20

Dear Stan... "

Stan's warm flush of embarrasment seemed to drain out of his face and out through his toes, sending a slight chill through his entire being. He's not sure why this made him less scared than he's used to being.

"What is happening?"

Journaling had never been something he'd ever so much as thought about doing. Maybe it was the desperation of ridding himself of this grey film that had consumed him as of late. Stan prided himself on his rational, analytical mind, and those parts of him were waving their hands as if being rescued from sea. For the first time in almost his whole life, curiosity was ruling his actions. He'd heard how much writing things out helps a lot of people get through tough moments, and the desperation (or was it curiosity?) spoke again.

Some days he felt silly scribbling his thoughts on the pages, until one day he noticed a little more color. The grey film seemed to thin, just enough to notice there was something on the other side. "Could this be working?", Stan whispered to his open journal page. This led him to exploring more of the "cliché", as he called them, methods of seeking some emotional relief. He took notes on everything. What he did. What he thought about it. How he felt. What he wanted to do next...that was a new train of thought. He'd never thought about taking action before. His life was filled with only reactions, up until that moment. He started writing down goals. Taking his notes along the way. Was this little black journal magic? It seemed like anything he wrote about came true, and things he wanted to leave behind were suddenly gone. He stopped looking over his shoulder for them.

Stan didn't waste an inch of blank space on those pages. It looked like the most confusing word search in history. He was afraid that if he got to the last page everything would stop, not that he wasn't grateful for where he had found himself. Work was going great. He was growing closer with people around him. Stan was finally feeling like he was letting go of his suit of armour. Although a newfound confidence was growing in Stan, he was still overly humble and modest, especially in the idea of money and wealth. He always just wanted enough of it to get by and be able to do some of the things he loves. He had resisted wishing for money in his journal for longer than most might. He started writing.

"Can you imagine? Not having to think about money. That's all anyone in my family stressed about. Who am I to break that cycle? Why do I deserve it over others? Man that'd feel damn good. I could help my family worry a little less. That feels like a lot of responsibility. Ugh, there's fear again. I wish to be wealth...enough to be comfortable. (He can't help his modesty at times.)"

It had been a year since he wrote that wish for wealth, and the last few blank pages of the journal were quickly approaching. "I knew it would be too greedy," Stan thought, as he came across that page on his occasional revisit of old entries to see what had come true afterall. He had gotten a promotion at work, and was certainly less stressed about money than he had ever been. "Maybe that's it."

In that last year Stan had really come out of his shell. He made decisions with a confidence and clairty that still felt so foreign to him. He took more risks. Said "yes" more often, and "no" even more. He started exploring his creative side again. Music was his passion in high school and so he started making music. Writing in his journal made him realize how much he enjoyed writing as a whole and began to explore this more, too. With the encouragement of some new, close friends Stan began sharing his work and his ideas. He didn't expect anyone actually paid attention, but he did it anyway. He wasn't the biggest adrenaline junkie, but this felt as close to that for him. He liked it.

The last blank space of the little black bo0k, that had found him what felt like ages ago, started to disappear as the ink from is pen tattooed his last thoughts onto the paper. He wrote about gratitude and hope. And thanked the magic of this book for helping transform his life. He wasn't where he wants to be, but he felt changed nonetheless. Grief overcame him as he shut the back cover for the last time. The magic had run out and Stan was left to create the rest of his life without that special journal.

He started a new journal, but would place this new journal inside his old one when he wanted to write. He found one that looked identical, nearly, lacking that spark of magic. The two journals sat on his lap as Stan started to daydream mid-sentence. They slid down to the floor, leaving a pen mark that stretched from the first line of the page to the bottom. The page felt ruined to him, so he flipped it to start again.

"You've grown patient" was written in his handwriting. The memory of him standing in front of that miniature library washed over him. Emotions and all. He set the journals down, one inside of the other. His daydream continued for a moment. He was brought back by the sound of an email. "Junk mail probably." Stan looked anyway. Someone had seen his collection of art and wanted to hire him for a project they were working on. They were willing to pay an amount Stan never imagined he was worth. Only people with remarkable skill or talent earn that much money. Fear and panic ruled his thoughts just as they had in the past, like animals to injured prey. Stan fought these thoughts as he had many times before, with his pen and those blank pages. He wrote out his future that day, and never worried about money again.