The Art Diary

Once it was new.
I held it in my hands,
The pages white,
smelling of freedom and change.
It was blue.
Blue like the breast of the hummingbird,
Small as the most menial things in life,
Yet as large as imagination itself.
Now it is older.
Rectangular, a box filled to the brim with ideas,
and all of my skills, a window into my mind,
The taste of childhood, holding the feelings of times long gone.
I peer at my memories.
The textured sheets, frayed at the edges, tainted
with the rough impressions of pencil on paper,
creating warped versions of reality.
And,
As each page is filled, it becomes emptier,
of the clean canvases it once had.
It is replaced by the future.