"How many sheets do you own?" you'd ask as I roll up the dirty one like a mother would a diaper. "Not enough," I'd say, "not enough. I have a lot of books though, more than I have read, or probably ever will read in my life. I like collecting them. I like the way they smell; new or old. I like the way they look. I have two sheets. I have a scattered collection of postcards.
I especially like coffee table books, but they run more expensive than other books, because there are more pictures which is more expensive to print. Which also makes them more interesting and accessible to an attention deficit, mildly dyslexic, sensory learner such as myself.
I'm also terribly forgetful, I think because I'm trying so hard to gather and store away facts all the time. Then some things stick though I don't intend them to. It's the main reason I journal, partially to keep record of anything important, but also to process things.
All of my journals are green in color scheme. I suppose that'd be another of my collections. I've probably filled about ten of them since age 12 or so. I debate making it known in my will, someday, that they should be burned.
See, sometimes I just feel the need to write, even if not for eyes to see; for no real purpose. I also know I'll write something of purpose in my lifetime, though I don't know what."
