Joy is but the pen and page I use to write in. There I can escape and be myself. Complete and eternal happiness. I let the world saturate themselves with meaningless worries and dramatic, self-absorbed problems. Far away from us. I am fascinated by how fluidly my pen dances across the page. We are at peace, always together, accumulating and jotting down memories of feelings or the shameful wrath I had that day. My journal is not judgmental. We are best friends, honest and real. I would write through out all of the pages. Endless words flowing like waves on a beach from my mind to the pen to the perfect page. A permanent statement, there are no regrets. I express myself with the pen and paper in a way I could never express myself to a person, even a true friend or family member. I draw tiny doodles around the frame of the page. We laugh about the frivolous songs I made up about said drawings. We keep my secrets and fears hidden on the last page. It’s small and worn and rarely used, but I let them roam free, in that trusted place.


The smell of old pine trees is pressed into the handmade pages, Small indentations are left from the pressure left by vigorous writing. Damaged corners, a derelict spine and frayed edges on the outside of the journal are the reasons why I have kept, what some people would call, a old book. They remind me of my dog, who chewed the corners of my journal, when we first met. The spine is damaged because of the many times I’ve ran my fingers back and forth when I am thinking about an idea. The frayed edges show the years we’ve spent together. My journal is the comfort of home, the complete feeling of happiness and serenity. We are tranquility.