Words can take you so long . . .

Smooth, dark ink had echoed the thoughts on paper.  It was mostly nonsense and gibberish; all in all, not very interesting.  The restless writer had no care for such mundane technicalities though; those were not very important right now.  For a moment, he was alone and content.  That’s all that matters.

The notebook would’ve screamed, surely.  Pages were torn and hastily scribbled, crumpled and as worn out the cover was, it was surprising that the little journal had not yet tore itself to pieces.  A bit pitiful, yes, but the young owner had  paid no heed.

“Well, it’s still good, isn’t it? “  He had once said.  “Why would I replace it?”

He never did.  It was four years old now, and the navy blue notebook has been affectionately dubbed  “Josh” by the boy.  His parents had been slightly  worried, but he waved them down.  That was that.

So he wrote. He wrote everything.  Experiences, places, people that existed only in his mind – he wrote them all.  He wanted to be an author someday, see.  He wanted to inspire people with his words.  He wanted to make a new world in pages.  He wanted to be known for that too.

            Little John Green had always wanted to be an author, see.  He wanted to write.

By : Jean Dorothy Andrada, CCS