Papa's Hot Air Balloon

And so, I waited. I waited for inspiration to strike me with something so profound that it would finally be worth keeping. I waited for my thoughts to organise into something flowery and palatable, so that I may be okay with them being immortalised to read. Now, almost a year later, I still haven’t opened that notebook, and its empty pages remain heavy— heavy with the weight of an expectation to perform. But perform… for whom? For myself? Am I afraid that the ink from my pen will yield my reflection, and am I so disconcerted with myself that I will find it ugly?

No matter; today, I will be opening that book, just as I am creating my first Tumblr post despite having told myself for months that I’d start a blog “one day.” If I am going to write anything with any meaning, It needs to be, and be raw, first— and the fact that it’s mine is the only justification it needs. I cannot hope to write poetry if I do not write. My notebook will be of no use beyond a pretty display item if I don’t actually fill it.