The Black Book

Blank Space.

I own a black book.

Well, unlike the gif, it has a black cover, not black pages.

It’s a basic notebook I bought in Muji three years ago. I bought it because I thought it looked pretty, and it was also my first visit to Muji so I kind of panicked at the moment. I went there with my sister and I fell in love with the notebook. It’s black, with around 60 sheets (more or less), tidy lines, yellowish tone of paper, and it had rounded corners. I bought it not because I would use it, but because I liked it.

When I returned home, I immediately gave it a new function, which is to serve as my personal recipe book. My mom owns many recipe books and I’ve skimmed through the pages and noted my favorites. So, that same evening, I took one of her books and copied around 5 recipes that I really like.

One day, when I was in Jakarta, someone found two photos when I was around 6 and 8. I had no photo album, so I stuck both photos in the notebook, each on different sheets.

Another day I was writing ideas for one of the books I’d like to write, and I realized that I had no structured plot. So I took the notebook and wrote in it a structured plot, beginning with a start, putting in a climax towards the end, and ending it with either a sad ending or a cliffhanger.

One day, I was randomly daydreaming and I thought that a journal of banal activities I do in Spain would be a good purpose for the book. So I started writing one day, beginning with a note about how I always have ugly thoughts whenever I’m about to go to sleep. The idea lasted only around five days, and I never wrote after that. The last post was about my thoughts on the death of my grandma and grandpa, and how it affected me.

When I started my relationship with my current boyfriend, it was supposed to be a summer fling or a contract, with us agreeing that the relationship should end in 21 days. So, because the time was short, I decided to start writing again, documenting the relationship through writing. My hope was to learn life lessons later when I reread the journal entries, but the writing didn’t continue until day 21, but rather until day 5.

Now, the black book serves as an emotional journal. What I write there are now rather very personal, things that I refuse to share with anyone, or things that I share only to my best friends. It is a possession that shows my most vulnerable side, as I have trouble trusting people. I only fully trust a few people, and with them I never think when I tell my stories.

I like to reread the entries. They always give me new perspectives. They challenge me to cope with myself and to understand myself better. They give me new ideas of how to just go on my way. Being myself.

In the end, even though I don’t write regularly in this journal, it is one that in the future, if I don’t lose it, will be a cherished possession of thoughts and very personal opinions and views.

Regards.

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