My black book is my work. It is a sketch of letters, of words, of lists to uncover life. It has gone too far in many ways just as it has not yet scratched the surface of what it reveals. Its purpose is to fulfill the emptiness, to carry me through the dry and empty patches of my rides through bone barren patches of life and land. It is also a smile through the floods of fulfillment. It has painted faces of the familiar, reflections of the obscure, it is entirely a secret but it has been through the hands of everyone I have met.
The pictures I draw outline the life around me. A cursive creation submerged in my passion. It notes my attractions, my defeats, my victories, and happenings. A little black string keeps the ends closed, safe from flinging open into naked view, helplessly into the hands of those in silence. The pages thicken with every sheet penned in blue and black ink. It is a parenthesis of poems and prose, the book never closed on the infinite subjects that arise in day to day life. It is my light and my darkness, it faces the difficult just as it approaches life in all its harmony.
The coarse edges around existence are noted and the soft, spoken for. The pages are turned until there are no more lines to continue, until my book is full of inklings and thinking. One by one, from start to finish, the flow of words streams through my sketchbook until it may hold no more sentences, no more observations and it is replaced by the sponge of a newer black book. It will open again when I wish to sift through the river of my thoughts and I wish to swim through from one end to the other, in hopes of understanding this journey through words.