’til the third shot of tequila

Maybe this is what life looks like, when it is all written down on paper. Scratches that look like the scribbles of a madman. People walking around with pocket-sized Moleskine’s, one for every year. Within the black leather walls is page after page of text. No date or identifying number, just a line break to mark the start of a new day. Three hundred and sixty-five days of thoughts and events are transcribed, written down between the lines. Ink seeps through to the other page, memories, to remind you of the past. It all blends together, a blur of a lifetime. The handwriting is not your own. It is unkempt, jagged, and larger than yours. It was a year ago, when you broke your right arm. You stand there with the notebook in your hand. Some pages are awash with tears and others are marked with coffee rings. The spine is cracked and you place your hand on your back for support. The tattered bookmark dances in the wind as you marvel at how much has happened. A lot can change in just a few pages.

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