Thursday, July 2nd, 2009
I want to thank you for being here for me.
I know this trip has been harder on you than it has for me. It's only been a week, but your paper is no longer crisp and your spine has seen better days. You have been hastily -- dare I say, carelessly -- packed and repacked so many times.
Your pages, once clean and white, are now forever tattooed with my muddled prose -- not even prose at times! Call them, rather, reckless scrawlings, peppered with awkward sentence fragments and embarrassing spelling errors. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I even switch to point form. Your disappointment is tangible and I apologize.
When we travel together I enjoy breathtaking views, eat great food, and meet wonderful people; you live in a dark pocket in the bottom of my pack, fighting for space among socks and souvenirs, your only friend the Orange Hitchhiking Bible, with whom you share that depressing little space (I do hope you get along alright -- I know he can be preachy at times).
And yet you suffer these indignities in brave silence. I commend you, dear notebook, I do.
But pause, kind notebook. Think not of the cross you bear. Instead, remember that your hardships are not for nothing. My words, recorded onto your fine pages, will one day be heard. An email, a blog, a magazine, who knows?
But my medium of choice, here and now, is you. And I promise I will tell them how well you served. I'll dedicate an entry entirely to you, and the world will know your sacrifices. The world will know the part you played in this journey of mine.
So, in all sincerity, from the tip of my pen to the bottom of my heart,