ARIETEM

>> Definitely not an obsession. More like a distraction sometimes or an implement to outsource creativity building from slight insanity? Okay maybe an obsession then. 

   Anyhow I started using them as very young actually; there was this one day - I can't remember how old I was exactly but I think I was about 10 - when I was just roaming through the libarary of our home. There's always been something fascinating about the walls filled with books and their faded golden letters on the worn ancient leather that varies in color and shape.

  I'd often pull out a book on random and open it as if it was a treasure that would crumble to pieces by the lightest touch. Often they would be in French, Latin, fucking Greek even. My dad hates when I touch the books in there - so every little sound would make me jump like a deer hearing a gunshot. Eyes snapping to the door while my heart would be pounding as a hummingbird's. 

Then there was a specific day; I had found an English book where the printed letters were barely visible from being so tiny and slim. The sun stood in through the stained glass reflecting in the dust particles hanging in the air from the heavy blood red draperies. I was so lost in the words that I didn't hear the heavy familiar yet terrifying sound of footsteps. I knew it was him. The sound was as recognizable as his voice even; the slow heavy pace.

   When I finally heard it; it was too late for me to escape through the other door. In pure panic I sought over the room almost fainting from the fear of being caught with a book in my hands. My eyes found the old wooden desk and before I knew it I was crawling into the hide under the desk; pushing the chair out - before pulling it back into place when I was safely located in the dark little hidden space. I was fairly sure my heart beat echoed against the walls and would reveal me - but maybe the books were secretly on my side and swallowed the loud sound for me that day.

    He was barely in the room for more than five minutes; and yet it felt like an eternity in hell's waiting room. 

When he finally left I stayed behind; my eyes nailed on a brown paper back that stood in there with me. I had just stared at it till I dared moving - dared making the smallest sound again. 

   I had let my mind wander off - thinking, imagining what treasure the brown paper back would be hiding. But I never knew it would be a much more magical item than the hundred things I had imagined. It took all my courage to pull the brown back forth and peek down into it. 

  Inside lay a brown leather journal with a simple elegant leather strap. With shivering hands I put down the English book I had been clenching to my chest for hours. I picked out the journal; turning it in my hands. It was almost pitch black in my hiding spot, but I could still just see the handwritten note that had been added in a writing I had never seen before. 

   'Belongs to Anne Styles' it simply said. Nothing more - and yet it meant as much to me as the importance  of the bloody universe being created. 

    There hadn't been written anything in the journal - but from Mrs. Meredith I learnt that my mum wrote a lot of journals apparently. Though I kept searching the house for them - spending hours, and hours - I could never find another one. 

I discovered though - that the one she had never gotten to use was bought in Barnes & Noble. They called the version a 'Brown Medieval Wrap Journal' but since it's rather expensive being 'handbound in freaking Italy' as the website claims - I don't always buy that version. I think - actually - that the journal I let Amber keep is this version though; yeah I'm fairly sure. It'll proabably be the very last one of those I can buy, since I'm kind of broke at the moment. Anyway - that's basically my story of my 'obsession with journals'.