To My New Journal

If I were a dragon, I'd have a Writer's hoard. My hoard would not be mountains of gold or piles of silver. Nor would it be a collection of priceless gems, or other some other Earthly treasure that would tempt the sins of men. My hoard would be a collection of notebooks. Most of them would be found covered in dust. Spines uncracked and pages untouched. Sure there would be other items scattered about too: hoodies, minimalist rings, and coffee mugs, and boxes upon boxes of Twinings Jasmine tea. But the most precious thing of all, at least in my mind, would be the columns of notebooks several stories high.

I found this one at a pharmacy. At a convenience store of all places! I forget why I was there, surely something about a prescription, but I couldn't tell you what else I purchased. I remember I bypassed the gossip magazines and other impulsive items. They are rather clever, you know, placing such things coincidentally close to the kiosk. Even closer to grubby fingers. Yet I found myself in the aisle with all the school books and office supplies. Stationary, as they call it, if you feel better that way. My hands would brush over the shelves of journals, caressing the covers and tracing the spines. The leather ones were my favorite for they are so easily disguised. I could bring it to work and they'd be none the wiser of what ever sort of fantasies (or spice) was written inside. So I'd pluck one. Or two. Or three. Like dandelions or their seeded trees I'd pluck them and make a wish for each. This one for work. That one for me. This for whatever my therapist says because despite what they say, talk isn't cheap. So I'd leave the store with my new tokens to add to my dragon's keep. Secretly knowing, however, I'd go back for more next week.

I wish I could tell you what inspired this compulsion. I wish I could boast and say I scribbled every page. Pages filled with my best and worst ideas and spines cracked beyond repair. Goodness what a lie that would be. Instead they're scattered here and there. Like hidden museum pieces they're tucked away, waiting to be rediscovered.

A few weeks would go by and one would pop up out of nowhere. It was as if they crawled out from their hiding place and begged for my attention. Please, they'd say. my pages are empty. Surely you can think of something worthy to write in me? I'd pick them up like a fussy child. I'd caress their cover. I'd flip the pages. I'd even tempt them with the restless tapping of a pencil while I suffered through another night of writer's block. Ultimately I'd put them aside, their pages as blank as before. Gods why was it always so difficult? What was so intimidating about a blank page? It is the writer's canvas. And there is a reason the eraser exists. Just say something. Anything. It doesn't need to be perfect. Make it something extraordinary. Or making a steaming pile of shit. Either way it would be something. A starting point. An essence. Transform the steaming pile into a Best Selling first sentence. So I wrote a poem for my notebook. Words of encouragement to inspire me. To inspire the muses and see what sort of wonders can pour out of me.

I wanted this journal to be a book of memories

A novel of novelties;

my deepest thoughts.

I wanted it to reach the stars like a Space - X mission.

Not out of necessity

but of brilliance!

To explode into a supernova of the most upstanding

majesty

so that it is worthy of the art that graced its cover.

One can only hope.

only can only dream-

Pray to Merlin!

To the Sandman

Whomever brought me this dream,

Let it come true!

Let the world foresee the truth-

The radiance that shines in both of us.

In you

and in me.

Let the words that grace these pages

fill us with the most fantastic fantasies

and inspire new memories.