Lying a lone underneath the bed skirts of my Mistress’s bed my once full life has seen many better days. A shaft of light shines through the window and slashes across the cover of my nearly brand new pages. A glimmer of hope lights within my depths, but is quickly dashed as I realize it is simply a reflection off of one of my Mistress’s mirrors in her room.
As I sigh, I think back to all the amazing adventures and secret thoughts and wishes that my Mistress used to impart upon my pages. She used to tell me each and every one of her most guarded secrets and thoughts. Oh the joy I felt when she would giggle as she wrote of the escapades she would get herself into. And the sorrow I felt when she would tell me of whatever disheartening or sad things might have happened to her that day.
The life of a journal is such a roller coaster of emotions. Full of ups and downs and crazy twisty turny courses. We get to experience everything that goes on in our owners lives on the most basic and truest of levels. The happiness, the sadness, the excited highs and the depressed lows. From day to day we never know what will arrive on our pages to bring us into being. For a journal that has not been written in is simply a book of blank pages. A journal can never come into it’s full potential until someone takes hold of pen and puts it to paper to give us the words that are hidden within the deepest parts of their souls.
So here I lay. Alone and forgotten with blank pages still within my binding. For you see, my Mistress forgot all about me it seems. Though it seems like just yesterday that she sat with me on her lap and wrote of all her dreams and longings within my pages, over the last little while she has come to me less and less. She doesn’t pick me up and sit cradling me in her hands as she thinks about the things roiling around inside of her. No, she has tossed me aside, hidden under the bed, to a place where only forgotten hair bands and scraps of paper, and those awful, mean looking Dust Bunnies lurk.
And those Dust Bunnies are a gang of the worst kind. Crawling out of the darkness to clamp their grimy little hands and fuzzy little feet around my binding and over the edges of my pages. They even seem to make a slithery sound, almost cackling as they slip and slide over those scraps of papers, forgotten paper clips and of course there is that nasty looking shoe that has its nose stuck under the skirts of the bed. Dust Bunnies are evil, hateful little creatures that come upon you unexpectedly and take you unawares. What makes it all worse when dealing with those particular beasties, is that seeing as how I have no arms, I am not even able to discourage them from attacking me out of the blue. I am at their complete mercy until the day my Mistress decides to pick me up again.
My biggest worry, however, is that when she does pick me up, it won’t be to once again grace my pages with her fluid script, no, but to toss me in a box and forget all about me until the next time she gives books to goodwill or a thrift shop. Because when that happens, she won’t want to give away her old, forgotten journals, but will toss them into yet another box, or worse into that bbq grill and set us on fire. That is the sort of thing a forgotten journal thinks about and fears through the many days of endless boredom, and the long cold nights of unuse.
So until the day comes when my Mistress picks me up once more, I will stay as I am. Hidden in the shadows, lost and alone. Quietly, patiently, biding my time and dreaming of once again being the cherished companion of my beloved Mistress. I will quietly long for the days when she will once again take me into her tender hands and let her most secret wishes, thoughts and dreams flow from her mind onto my blank pages. When I will once again matter and have a purpose. Hoping that she will one day pick me up and continue to write her feelings and experiences in me until my pages are overflowing with words.
Only then will my existence have mattered. Only then will I have seen all I need to see. Only then will I have reached my full potential. So as Mistress used to write at the end of every journal entry…Until next time Mistress…I pray that that time is not so very far away as it could be. Faithfully your servant…Your Once Cherished Journal
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