I told her I can't finish anything. She asked to see the journals.
I brought it up as proof I was broken. Fifteen years of started and quit journals, a drawer full, evidence I couldn't stick to anything. She did not agree. She asked what all of them had in common. Bound. Dated. One shot. Miss a few days and the blank pages pile up behind you like a bill you cannot pay. She said, that is the notebook failing you, not you failing it. I teared up a little. I had carried that guilt a long time for no reason.





