I bought a small notebook with ruled pages a few days ago. I chose a smaller size because I found bigger notebooks intimidating and I thought a smaller book meant there'd be fewer pages and that would force me to write my burning thoughts out.

However, it doesn't seem to be working.

I found what I feel more comfortable with is a notebook with no ruled pages. A notebook with blank sheets where I can write in whatever size I want, form my lines any way I please, and doodle at the same time too.

I understand now that books with ruled pages are too confining for me. The sight of the ruled lines on the page turns me off. I don't know if my unwillingness to face these ruled lines is a weakness I must overcome...or if I'd be better off taking a "different path" and chossing notebooks with blank pages hereafter. It doesn't necessarily mean that everytime I come across a blank page that a new idea pops up into my head and I can write, but rather that a blank page offers me freedom. More freedom than that found in a sheet with caged lines.

I find it intolerable to be in spots where I am restricted mentally and emotionally. Perhaps I've become too sensitive to such places. The worst part is when one finds that the imprisonment stems from within. Nevertheless, I could do with fewer ruled notebooks for now..

YES!! Thanks to a WONDERFUL carpenter and the lovely librarian, the lock is now fixed and I am all set to display my collection!!!!!! *jumps and squeels in glee*

(And my puppet family seem delighted too!)

A new poem:

Instead of "No coward soul is Mine" I will be reading this:


Aye, there it is! It wakes tonight
Sweet thoughts that will not die
And feeling's fires flash all as bright
As in the years gone by!

And I can tell by thine altered cheek
And by thy kindled gaze
And by the words thou scarce dost speak
How wildly fancy plays.

Yes, I could swear that glorious wind
Has swept the world aside,
Has dashed its memory from thy mind
Like foam-bells from the tide--

And thou art now a spirit pouring
Thy presence into all--
The essence of the Tempest's roaring
And of the Tempest's fall--

A universal influence
From thine own influence free;
A principle of life, intense,
Lost to moratality.

Thus truly when that breast is cold
Thy prisoned soul shall rise,
The dungeon mingle with the mould--
The captive with the skies.

(--Emily Bronte (July 6, 1841), from the Honresfeld Manuscript)