I have an intense fascination with notebooks; usually handmade with beautifully crafted paper and bound in exotic covers of fabrics and leather.
I have filled many notebooks; my thoughts, ideas, and plans spilling down my arm and out my pen, shaping stories yet to be written. The way people can change from one day to the next, makes us mercurial creatures in the layers that mould us; rereading my notes years later augments this idea. It is compelling to see, in black and white, how I have evolved, but also the things I have achieved.
Notebooks are most excellent for many things, but for me they are not journals and diaries in the traditional sense. They are for writing lists (and the occasional recipe, quote, or poem that resonates with my soul).
Lists of places to go, things to do, and people to see. Bucket Lists.
My lists are of the rapidly-multiplying variety and continue to grow as if they have been lovingly tended and watered; blooming into things of magnificence. I can only hope to cross off each experience as I make my way through this beautiful life. This list is exhaustive and will continue to grow. Exponentially.