I surround myself with notebook after notebook. None seem to stick. I enjoy the newness of the pages. The cover of the journal and a hope that this time I’ll finish writing in every last page, but then another catches my attention. All of those blank pages, inviting me, telling me, pleading with me to come and write my story among its pages. This time it will be satisfying. This time I will tell all my truths. This time someone will read my musings and see and feel the things that I said and did and make my journey a part of theirs.