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I was in Powerbooks a couple of days ago, browsing through the different sections of books. As a younger teenager, I would sprint to the teen/young adult section – chick lit, who would have guessed? However, nowadays, I suddenly found myself in the fiction session contemplating between one of the bestsellers and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Days of Solitude. I also found myself looking at 100 Best Homes Around the World or something of that sort in the Architecture Section, and 1 Ingredient, 4 Ways in the Cooking Section. Talk about diverse but incredibly breathtaking books I wish I bought and took home.

What killed me though was seeing a set of Moleskine notebooks in the National Bookstore Work Station connected to Powerbooks. As much as I love books, I would gladly spend on those leather-bound babies any day. What always held me back though was the simple thought of, “What the hell am I going to write in that?” After years of my father beating in my head that I only buy what I need, I just haven’t found the right reason to buy myself a gorgeous ruled Moleskine notebook. And as an aspiring writer, that doesn’t seem like a good sign.

I’ve always loved notebooks when they are newly bought. Back when I was in high school, I had millions of VECO spiral notebooks (both in blue and black) that I bought every week. I filled them up with endless stories, thoughts and even a couple of academic notes and reminders. Before I know it, I toss them into my room (filled to the brim or thinned out from ripping too much pages) and I’m off to buy a new notebook. Notebooks like those were blank, empty – free for me to write whatever I felt, thought of or wanted all over its neatly lined pages. Pages were blotted with dark sign pens or marked with hard, pretty (albeit messy) script. Anything that was on my mind, I wrote – and those pages listened. Nothing really beats writing – the actual action of writing – on a journal. It makes everything seem more real.

Yet here I am, twenty years old at Christmas, typing away my thoughts, wishing I were writing them instead in a notebook I never bought.