I carry an empty Leuchtturm 1917 Bullet Journal in my messenger bag. It’s blank. I purchased some months ago when my path was headed in one direction. In August, it took a sharp turn as my priorities were made clear.* I didn’t want to be like them. The sort of people who are married to their jobs.

So I carry this blank journal with every intention to use it. I just don’t know how to use it. Not sure if that makes any sense. It does to me. Ryder Carroll, the man behind the bullet journal format, has penned a book, The Bullet Journal Method, which is slated for release later this month. I’m thinking about ordering a copy (or buying one the moment it comes out).

Don’t know if this will assist me with getting my thoughts in order. To help me think straight, if you will. Because I have this idea that I would love to nurture into something bigger. I haven’t been creative lately, and I miss it. I miss being invited to poetry readings. I miss writing words, painstakingly. I miss the late nights contemplating my sentence structure, my flow and rhythm. Miss the way getting something down right the first time. Miss crumbling the page after the arrogance passes.

I’m not an interesting person. But I’d like to tell my stories anyway.

*I like to pretend that is was all of my volition, but let’s face it; there wasn’t any real path of me ever getting the supervisor position. The library director would rather have me as a grunt worker forever before she bothers giving me a promotion.
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