On my desk,
a stack of orange spines.
Rhodia grid bound journals, holding memories in dotted lines.
A moment to flip the cover back,
to see my childish handwriting.
Find the kid I left far behind
in a shifting,
modern land.
A decade and a half of ink,
of logic mixed with rage,
yet they sit pristine,
untouched by grime.
For mama had preserved them well,
against an element
termed as;
'time'..
16h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC
On my desk,
a stack of orange spines.
Rhodia grid bound journals, holding memories in dotted lines.
A moment to flip the cover back,
to see my childish handwriting.
Find the kid I left far behind
in a shifting,
modern land.
A decade and a half of ink,
of logic mixed with rage,
yet they sit pristine,
untouched by grime.
For mama had preserved them well,
against an element
termed as;
'time'..
My handwriting was literally tragic growing up, and honestly, it still is. Mama used to hold my hand to guide me through those dotted lines just so I could get better. But despite her trying her absolute best, I couldn't fix it. Maybe I was just destined to have terrible handwriting. So that every single time I grab a pen, I am forced to remember her grinding to help me during her short tenure here on earth with me..
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