journals, writing and the big fake O

Yeah, so empty notebooks and fresh pens and unique journals are for some reason things that catch my fancy. Rough pages, odd covers, places for pictures to be pasted and all that jazz.

I suppose it's the undiscovered journey of the blank pages, the possibility, the future inspiration that would incite one to fill those pages, the longing for future words penned in haste, anger, passion, anything.

It's also something inside me that desires that flow, that 'writer's high' where you're inside the words, the world, the characters. I love it and I live there. The only truth I live with is the truth I write. (Anyone can catch that, surely, when they realize that most all writers write is lies and I am one of them).

I still don't know why anytime I am caught looking at journals at work I react as if I have been looking at porn. No big naked body parts or woman in the throes of fake orgasm on screen and yet I get all jittery and stutter my words.