The journal was a thing, not a person. The journal should not have feelings, wants or desires. The journal should not speak, should not dictate.
But it did.
It was alone. It was surrounded.
It was hers, it was a guide to no where in particular. It did not tell the future and it was not meant to make her fortunes better. It was no decades old, passed down from mother to daughter to improve luck and win the lottery, there was no ritual. It had been made partially by hand, partially by factory, bought by the mother in a bookstore long ago.
It had dreams of being the conduit to the next great American novel or keeping the secrets of an heiress which would later become a memoir which would later become a movie on Lifetime. But it was empty.
It had been full of hopes and dreams and words that the mother had collected and saved from magazines written in the dark light of the morning or overheard in the grocery store. The words had fallen away and continued to fall away into the books that washed over the girl, her dark hair splayed on the couch, the cat purring itself in contentment. The words were never to be seen and would not be seen except sometimes the journal liked one.
It liked pennies.
It liked the light way it glanced off the tongue and how tiny yet important the shiny coper pieces were. It liked the double ns, the way you could let the eeeeeeeis slide up or down into light or dark or be as crisp as a autumn apple. It liked the word
So it kept it. It kept it from sliding off the page into the books collected about the ramshackle apartment like a hoarder or nothing but paper and lost love.
The journal cried for the girl who had been heartbroken twice over, somewhat by her own device. The journal cried words and sniffled punctuation marks. The journal lay alone, surrounded by the other books that did not feel as it did, did not talk did not cry words did not hold hopes and dreams just words printed on a page once written by a man or woman in a cabin or hotel room hoping that they had written the next great novel hoping that maybe the advance would be enough to pay the rent. The books were not like the journal. Not at all.