It arrived. Finally.
The package arrived with a knock from Tito Aga, our AV technician slash resident MacGyver, during my morning class. My delight, perhaps I wasn’t able to suppress that the students thought it was some package from my someone. (These students give me too much credit thinking I could have that someone.) I’ll take that as a good thing. Managed to forget about the package that rested at the table as I continued the lecture. In two days’ time, the class would take its first examination. There was the expected enthusiasm on inquiries about the exam coverage – meaning, everything we have discussed in the first half of the semester.
The class ended soon enough and I was able to spend a few moments with the journal. I couldn’t write anything on the pages. It felt like the thoughts I had didn’t deserve such a journal. I contented myself with running my fingers across the pages and the cover taking in that old leather scent I associate with libraries and dusty books and yellowed pages and great words.
I couldn’t use it yet because I still have to complete the current notebook. Still, I bring it with me at home an in the office. And when I feel the need to pretend that I’m a person of intelligence with thoughts of importance, I retrieve the journal from my sack of a bag to hold it. Just hold it. And study the details. As if such act would attract those scattered thoughts and bring them some order as they become lines of ink leisurely making its way towards the bottom of the page.