My fascination with books is unrelenting.

Today I wandered off, weaving between the tall shelves, and found myself gazing at all types of colorful notebooks and planners.

I picked up each one, grazed its spine, examined its line spacing, caressed its covers.

I wasn't even supposed to be there, but, as always, I was drawn by them.

Perhaps it's the notion that there's empty space in desperate need of creative fulfillment.

Or perhaps the spirits of the sacrificed trees are the ones who beckon me, their residual energy still evident in the pressed and dyed pages.

I take my time to assess them. Would I write in this one? What would I spill into it? It could be a journal, or a grimoire, or a doodle book. I could dedicate this one to a specific list; movies to watch, names I like, things I want for the future, my bucket list.

Each book marks endless possibilities.

And everything about them utterly captivates me.