Sickness

My Oma would call this a sickness. It’s her word for obsession or impulse to buy buy buy certain things.

You have a sickness with nailpolish, you get that from me. 

You have a sickness with those tools, you get that from your Opa. 

I have a sickness with journals. I am compelled to buy pretty little things made for holding and keeping safe memories and words meant for your eyes only. The ones with little locks and interchangeable keys that I would keep on a necklace. Fancy ones that you get for your birthday that are voice activated. Plain moleskin ones because they’re so artsy. Cute little modern things in bright colors and plastered with inspirational quotes. 

I look through my journals and can’t read farther than the fifth page in because words cease to exist. Along with my sickness for buying these journals I have a sickness for not using them. I’ve only almost filled one little moleskin book and that was just from these last few months. I overshot and purchased four more that I have yet to touch. Naturally, instead of turning to any one of those four quaint journals that will be seen by no one, I turn to an online blogging platform which is the epitome of a modern journal. 

I just had to have it. It’s a sickness after all.