You ever get one of these gifts that you know you will never be able to use? It’s like one of those things that are too beautiful, too pure to be dirtied by world-weary hands. No piece of my writing feels worthy enough to warrant spilling ink on this beauty. It would feel like using Excalibur to cut up potatoes.
…But I’ll end up having to use it one day. After all, if I’ve learned one thing from “Le Petit Prince”, it probably lies in this: “You’re beautiful, but you’re empty…One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put under glass, since she’s the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.”
It is the idea that something is precious not because it is perfect, but because it is yours, truly, in every sense of the word. So I’ll spill ink on these pages, it will probably smudge, too. I will write entire paragraphs and strike them out. I will probably doodle absent-mindedly over one of the pictures. One day a page might even get a little ripped up, and I’ll probably not be able to shelter it from the rain when I carry it with me. But then it’ll truly be mine. No one will have anything like it and in the world, there will exist only one of those.
…So much for a simple notebook.