Angled and slightly propped up, a mere meter to my left on a side table, the supple leather covered journal watches me in an almost accusing manner. Is this the end for the Waterman fountain pen, shiny black with a brass pocket clip and midnight blue ink even now drying in the nib.
Is this the beginning of the end for the handwritten journal?
In some form I have more than 40 + years of personal writing. Vast tracts of uncontrolled musings. Bookends to hollow spaces of days, weeks, years, then back to inconsistent, spasmodic surges, of trite and self serving dribble. Neatly formed conventional and boring dissertations, controlled discussions of veiled emotions – expectant of a future audience. It’s all there, words of prose, poetry and essays, and then the photography.
And now a new venue, anonymous but not private. Where will my fingers take me?