I don't understand the moleskine obsession, of which I am a part. Little hardcover black journals with a back pocket and a strap to hold them closed. Brownie had one about two years ago, and I saw him write in it and became obsessed. I'd forgotten about them just in time to walk into my school's bookstore and find a display. So I bought two. And I haven't filled any, but I am working on it and I'm just crazy for the little buggers.

I have always, always preferred small journals. I hate large ones. I want something I can stick in my pocket, even if it contains fewer words. Multiple volumes are cooler looking on the bookshelf, anyway. And while I don't get much use out of the pocket, I will say that I used to hate the elastic strap and now I'm sold on it. It's nice to protect the pages of this book I'm pouring so much time and energy into.

Ink is permanent. Ink is real. Ink refuses to hide mistakes, instead forcing us to confront them. I see the construction of my soul outlined by these ink splatters, the crossed out words and misspellings. I do not try to hide from the ink's record of my humanity.

It's unexpectedly liberating to see the pages begin to pile up. Ink that you don't recall having written just a few days ago, the details coming back to you in sweet washes of memory. I feel like my words are the building blocks of my legacy, and I cannot help but imagine my grandkids or great-grandkids going into their attic and finding a dusty old box with my army surplus messenger bag, a few letters I wrote, some keepsakes, and a stack of journals. I hope they will be the sort of child who is mature beyond their years, one interested in the private thoughts left by their elders. And I imagine them cracking open the first of the journals, where it all begins:

"Cold wakes me better than caffeine..."