I bought something. As in, I went out of my way to purchase an item I didn't need but wanted, with money better spent elsewhere. Strange, that I always feel a need to confess such transactions, as though unnecessarily participating in the capitalist consumer society was a thing to be ashamed of and be held accountable for.

Especially if it is a blank notebook.

I have so many beautiful, blank notebooks waiting to be bashed about in my bag and violated by my ink. Another is unnecessary, so unnecessary. But it was cute, with differing designs within the pages, and it had dimensions the heft of which called to me. Not burdensome to carry, but not light enough to miss respect.

It's funny that I keep them. And keep using them. Just as I continue with this blog. The notebook is the jurisdiction of the writer. For writing. And I am not a writer. I have not written in years. In years. Yet these accoutrements of a writerly life appear stuck to me. The notebooks continue long after the last story dried out. You know I choose them thinking of what the person who comes after will think of them. As though there will come, in the future, scholars to pour over my scribbles and journals and confessions and analyse this and debate that. As if these writings were ever going to be of interest, let alone import.

Pretend.

We were watching a movie. Only ten or so minutes in. Without turning his head, J said, "You should write more fiction."  His words pushed all the angels of physics out of alignment and from then on the perspectives of the room were never quite right. I couldn't say "stop the movie" as that was too far along the train of thought. "Hit the space bar." That was what I needed. Not why. So I could ask him why he said that, what had he been thinking, to think to say that, right then, and he said I was crying, and I was. I was.

I am scared. I am tired.