About a Journal. Part 1.

The thoughts of a journal waiting to be purchased at a bookstore.

I found myself on a dusty bookshelf wedged between a dictionary and an encyclopedia. A stuffy bunch. Probably the last place anyone would have bothered to look. If it were up to me, I would have shelved me between September's GQ and Fifty shades. But then again, is that the kind of mind I'm looking for? I sat tight.

The dictionary rested along the wall of the bookshelf while I rested on the dictionary and the encyclopedia rested on me, despite having a whole shelf to it's right. I fantasized about pushing the encyclopedia over so that I could gain some visibility. Whatever it took to get noticed.

Patience and perseverance was my game. Weeks, and people, went by. Eventually, an unexpected bump toppled me onto the encyclopedia. The store manager yelled at the kid earlier for their sprint to the kid section. Thank the binding gods that he banged into my shelf. That bump will go away eventually, kid. It might bruise. Rub some dirt on it. Having the little ones run around the bookstore isn't always a bad thing.

Finally, a little exposure.

I spent days watching people meander from fiction to non-fiction. From Politics to Teen Drama (they seem to attract the same crowd). Few people picked me up for inspection.

"Mom! Can I have this journal?!"

"And what about the other one that you never write in? No thanks, young lady."

I would have loved to be taken off the shelf. No journal wants to remain empty. I was hungry for words. For thoughts. I wanted someone that would fill me with their fears and dreams. I'd use all the strength in my binding to keep those secrets secure. Or I could simply exhibit all of my contents. I'd take marching orders proudly.

Months had passed. By now, even the dictionary had been given a new home. A thesaurus took it's place. Me and the encyclopedia agreed that the thesaurus was just as nerdy. We had always hoped to be selected. Us books that stood behind began to wonder about our fate.

We noticed that books that overstayed their welcome would be moved to the clearance rack. Each day we wondered who would be next. For most books, it was exciting and dreadful all at once. More visibility, sure. We suspected that we would be donated to a library or school if the clearance rack didn't work out. While it was better than being thrown in the can, no one wanted to end up on the clearance rack. It would be like taking your cousin to prom.

But I wasn't a regular book. Those books contained thoughts, theories and formulas. Those books contained stories of romance and ridicule.

I, a journal, contained nothing.

All my pages could offer was possibility. That meant hard work. Reading was hard enough. How am I supposed to appeal to some random passerby? Not like I could show a little leg.

A few of the other books thought I'd be turned to mulch. Or just tossed in the trash. Some did their best to keep my spirits up.

"Don't worry about it. My cousin Bruno ended up on a coffee table after a few flea markets. They haven't been picked up in years, but at least they ain't countin' worms," said the Italian Cook Book from across the aisle.

That's reassuring.

We saw the stock boy coming down the aisle with a roll of red stickers. A dreadful word in a bold, black typeface:

"Clearance"

The sight sent a chill down our spines.