If every building falls and all the stars fade
Somewhere, maybe in a box in an attic or probably a dump, she had dozens of notebooks.
Plain composition notebooks had been transformed by her, their black and white marble covers decorated with a multitude of colors or a collage of quotes and stickers that were important at the time. The pages within these notebooks were similarly decorated throughout the margins. The bulk of every page was filled with her quickly written words. Every day she wrote at least a page. She used to write poetry, lyrics, short stories, and snippets from a novel she'd completed, all of it down on the pages of these notebooks. She missed the days when she had the time to write like that. Well, maybe not the days so much as the ability to sit and have the freedom to really write it all out.
She'd started a new notebook recently. It was the first notebook she'd owned in about six years. It had a brown fancy cover, decorated with flowers and scroll work. It was made from post-consumer wast and sugar cane, very eco-friendly. The only things she had penned in it were all nasty, negative lists. It was a far cry from her previously normal ramblings and ridiculous stories. It was no sequel to "Tangerine" or side notes to "A Separate Peace" or even like any of the educational books she had written on various subjects. These pages bore no titles borrowed from lyrics. There was actually no musical inspiration at all. She used to love throwing int references to various musicians and their work in everything she wrote. Music was ingrained in her. It was probably what her soul was made of, she often thought. But this new, fancy notebook had no traces of what she used to be or how she used to write. This new notebook needed to change, just like she was changing, back to happier times. Closer to love.
