The Leatherbound Journal


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So focused on her work, she rarely got out.

People began to whisper on the rare occasions they saw her on the street.

“She’s a recluse,” they’d say


“I hear she gets crazier by the day, always carrying that raggedy journal with her.”

She heard all yet remained un-bothered.

Her work was far too important to cater to the thoughts of the simple townspeople she told herself.

Soon she returned to her workspace, turned on the light, and opened the leather-bound journal that she so treasured.

Readying herself for the brilliance that would pour out of her and onto the cream-colored, lined paper of her leather-bound journal,

She stared at the blank pages,

Unable to find any words to decorate the paper with.

So focused on her work, inspiration tormented her day and night,

Highjacking her sleep night after sleepless night.

Sadly for her, no amount of inspiration sparked her enough to transform her ideas from the abstract into actual art.



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