There’s a new notebook on my table. It’s blank, and every morning it looks at me from the same spot, as if waiting for something I don’t yet know how to say.
I don’t open it. I leave it there, because some things need their time before they can be put into words. Writing too soon is like picking the fruit before it ripens.
It happens with people. Sometimes they arrive in a hurry to name everything, to understand, to resolve. And I propose the opposite: sitting a while with what has no name yet.
A blank notebook is not an emptiness. It’s a waiting. A space where everything still fits, where nothing is decided and therefore nothing is lost.
September approaches, and with it that feeling of beginning. But I don’t want to fill the notebook with plans. I want the first pages to be about the arriving autumn, about what the body wants to tell.
I’ll open it when the time comes. For now, it’s enough to know it’s there, blank, waiting.