Discovered the pleasure of bringing a fountain pen with me on walk to the library, but no notebook. Relying instead on those tiny thin wafers of white paper, cramming as many pretty words as I could copy from a book of poetry I thought would make me want to barf but was at least as lovely and vivid as the cover.
The feeling of being limited inspires so much desire. Knowing you will most likely lose whatever you’re trying to preserve. Knowing you don’t have much time, so picking the skinnier little book to milk for all it is worth. Squeezing more than you thought was possible onto scraps intended just to jot down a title or author or call number or two.
The pleasure of not being able to buy or bring home or keep forever every single book. Being forced to devour with focus, trying to retain everything, through the speeding hand and the hungry eyes.
Flipping your fountain pen upside down to make your lines thinner, making room on Valentine’s Day for more lines of love songs the way you try to squeeze just a few more paperbacks onto an overstuffed shelf.
I don’t know where this paper is now a week later, crumpled up and lost within a pile of receipts. But I think on the backside there were words about bleeding black glitter. I’m not sure.
