isn't that a weird thought? When you buy a journal, it's all crisp and fresh and empty, and it weighs maybe a pound when you hold it in your hand.
By the time you're finished with it, when it holds your heart and soul and a few salty tears between its pages, it weighs no more than when you started, and when closed it looks like no change has taken place at all.
But you know better, because you've spent hours scrawling beautiful, wonderful words across the page, tasting them, watching the pencil swoop around in a caress as words flow and flow and take over.
And yet...anyone else might think nothing has happened, that the book is still a book, because after all, it weighs no more. But books are never just books, and change doesn't have to be physical to be huge.
Because no matter how little or how much that book weighs when you're finished writing in it, it has become a part of you, it holds a little piece of your heart. Maybe you're the only one who knows, maybe you're the only one who can feel the weight when it sits in your hand, but sometimes words can be so heavy without the scale picking up anything at all.
I was going to copy down a journal entry I wrote about words and books and how I felt when I finished Marcus Zusak's The Book Thief, but this randomly came out instead. So there you go.