the little red book

Today I bought a little red book.

It actually is a journal.

It is a hardcover journal that is leather bound. There is a picture of a compass on the right bottom corner but only the north and the west end is shown.

The pages are thin but not as thin as those wispy, fragile, pages of the Bible.

The sides of the pages have gold overspray which makes the journal look more antique than it actually is.

The spine of the book has little ledges at the top and the bottom. It really mimics those old, first edition, vintage books that you see in movies.

When I held it in my had at the store, I felt like whatever I wrote in this journal, could potentially be something.

I don't know why I became so emotionally attached to this journal.

And my brain rapidly drew a picture:

A little girl browsed through the bookshelf at an antique store.

There was a ray of sunshine peeping through a little quiet window, putting a spotlight on the little girl.

The girl ran her hands across the spines of various books but when her hand touched the cool surface of the small leather ridges, she paused.

The girl's small hands pulled out the book. And with hesitation, she blew the dust off of the book. The gold sides of the book glimmered in the light.

No title on the cover.

She flipped through the thin pages ever so delicately.

She skimmed through a page quickly. It was about someone's life. Perhaps, a biography. Even an autobiography. But something was weird.

This book was handwritten.

That was new.

It was the first and only edition.

She took the book to the man at the register.

"Just the little red book, please," she said.