I found a diary once. I knew it was a woman’s diary by the small, delicate and precise writing. I knew it was a diary- because only the first page had been written on.

“Memories- often so sweet, always so fleeting- can be pinned to a single sheet of paper… forever”

It was perfect. And it was the only thing written in the book.

I do not wonder who she was, or what she wanted to write. Because I know the woman is me, and her story is mine.

She had taken a ruler to write the words, the bottom of her letters unnaturally cut off, as the straight edge blocked their descent. So much care had been taken to make the first page beautiful. I believe the quote was her own, and she could have filled the whole book with beautiful words. But she didn’t, she stopped on a single perfection.

Sometimes I feel that way, that I’ve gotten out one singularly perfect thing, and that’s as far as I can get.