I Keep Making These
O ne day, my hands were itching. Not the kind that asks for rest… the kind that insists on creating something , even if you don’t yet know what that something is. I was packing for a trip, slipping my usual things into place, when I picked up my travel journal. It’s small. Too small, sometimes. The kind you bring because it’s convenient… not because it’s comfortable . And I remember thinking— Wouldn’t it be nice to have something just as portable… but wider? Something that lets your thoughts stretch a little. Something that doesn’t make you fight for space when all you want to do is write. Something… pretty. Not just functional. Not just there. But something you’d want to reach for. So I made one. Just one. A small notebook. Five by five. Wide enough to breathe, small enough to carry, simple enough to not overthink. And then— I made another. And another. And another. I didn’t plan a collection. I didn’t sit down and say, this will be a product. I just kept choosing patterns ...
