Looking through old notebooks can bring back a lot of memories.
As I sit here cleaning my room, I find myself drawn to my old, small sketchbook.
I can't draw, and I haven't used it for anything.
This one little sketchbook holds so much meaning to me for some reason.
A reason of which I don't know.
As I stare longingly at this sketchbook, I think about it's purpose.
It's to be used, to be drawn or written in.
Yet, I can't bring myself to do so.
The pages in this sketchbook are blank.
They hold no context or content.
They're just... blank.
Begging to be written on but also hoping not to be.
Indecisive, they seem.
I'm a lot like my sketchbook.
Maybe it's time for a change.
