The velvety smell of various lotions infuses the room with sweet intoxication. Piles of books stacked sky-high next to the corner fabricated green bed frame against pale blue-green walls. Notebooks, journals, and loose papers are stashed under the bed and in the white cube bedside table. Tiny fortune cookie fortunes litter the table with Chinese red envelopes underneath. A class picture capturing the thrill of being in the nation’s capital sits with two glass jars, one heavy with change, and another with notes written from the Tooth Fairy about dental change. Laundry is spread across the floor, creating a seemingly small passage from the door to the foot of the bed. Blankets of various colors ranging the whole color spectrum are spread in a specific order of black and fuzzy, light mint blue, zebra-striped green and white, halo red-orange, and crochet rainbow. Across the room are white paneled closet doors hang half-way open to reveal jumbled shorts, jeans, t-shirts, and sweatshirts shoved on the shelves alongside nice floral tops and lace dresses clustered on hangers. On top of a stash of papers beside the bed lies a tiny journal, inconspicuous on top of a small annual planner. The hues of blue match the walls and the white contrasts the dark navy of the planner beneath it. The stark white pages are crisp, waiting to be filled with thoughts and ideas. The emptiness of the tiny journal is the only vast emptiness in the room. A girl picks through the obstacle course of the room and carefully lifts the tiny journal, feathery light in her hands, and flips the cover over to the back to reveal secrets that are hidden in every breath she breathes. Secrets that she leaves unread within you, Tiny Journal, the one place she cannot and will not hide them.

Behind the broad smiles that light up dark, ebony eyes. Behind exuberant words exploding from chapped lips. Behind the hardworking and determination to go the extra mile. Behind the laughter that bunches up tanned cheeks. Behind the long, onyx and honey brown hair that lays straight and heavy on her back. Behind the quiet, composed masked that is placed upon her face when a loved one says the dreaded words of “We need to talk.” Behind the blank face shown as a loved one’s words take blow after blow to her sinking ship of self-confidence. Behind the mask of happiness and calmness, the ocean of overwhelming emotion floods her world. Behind the wiped tears and the words whispered, “I’m okay,” lies the wreckage of the ship that has been rebuilt and repaired infinite times. Behind the debris and the waves sweeping away what is left, lies you, Tiny Journal, no bigger than one’s hand. You’re unharmed in the chaos surrounding you; fearless in the face of doubt and sorrow. You lie there, your pages closed and your contents undisturbed. You lie there, symbolizing that although things break, there’s always something left behind. You lie there, surrounded by darkness and shadows, telling the girl with dark eyes and dark hair, that you’re there for her. You lie there in the fury of the storm that is barreling down around you, destroying every sanctuary and safe-haven, reminding her that there is peace among the wreckage; there is hope to start again.

Your spiral binding lets out a whispering scratch of paper on paper as the hardcover folds itself back against the back cover. The white background of your cover littered with geometric leaves, plants, feathers, and ferns, surrounding three different owls. The first crisp page, blank with anticipation, waiting for the first word to be scrawled out across the wide-ruled lines. Inks of vibrant pink, dark blue, deep black, sunset orange, flowery violet, and ash grey appear upon the pages, writing lines upon lines of words. The twisty writing flowing with each emotion placed within it glides across the pages like a calm flowing river. Scratch! The colorful words cross themselves out violently, repeatedly. New words seep into the blank void next to the scribbled out letters. The grainy grey lead of a pencil jots down ideas and notes hurriedly as the soft ink of a pen dries somewhere hidden within. With each stroke, the words fill the pages, just as the secrets fill the empty spaces.

Strokes upon strokes; letters upon letters; words upon words; poems upon poems, fill the blank vastness of you, Tiny Journal. Each gliding swirl of a pen across your papers brings life to your void of wide-ruled lines. A pencil’s lead softly pets the fibers of your pages, leaving strokes and curls of words made up of characters from the alphabet. Vibrant colors fill your pages with secrets, pouring in the concealed emotions hidden deep within the bearer of the mighty weapon. Each word curls with the grace and brashness of love and hope, loss and despair, frustration and bliss. Tiny Journal, you consume every thought and feeling given to you. You speak through riddles in lines of poetry, gifting light to the empty spaces on your pages and in one’s mind.

Tiny Journal, you are composed of tiny words and empty spaces. Each stroke of the pen gliding across your pages, writing lines consumed in burning emotions begging to be unleashed. Tiny Journal, so many mysteries you hold within the lines of poetry scribbled down in a whirlwind storm of thoughts that cry onto the page. The words that are written are now embedded in the fibers of your pages. The words paint pictures of Shadows and Light, each asking Who Am I? Oh, Tiny Journal how you express what is cried onto your pages, painting the vibrant colors of sorrow and hope and love. The love poems that were written in you contrasting the heaviness of the hopelessness that consumes the mind. Tiny Journal, the stories of loneliness and misunderstanding imprinted on your pages with scrawling handwriting. How does one tiny journal hold one person’s world within its crisp pages? How does one write down the storm that is brewing inside them? The storm created from the pressures of parents, the stress of proving yourself, the rain of the feeling of disappointment dragging down one’s shoulders as it does in the middle of the storm. Tiny Journal, how do you stand in the eye of the hurricane? The hurricane of thoughts and words of lost friendships, lost identity, and lost purpose? How do you hold so much within you and yet, hold little space? How are you so heavy and yet so light? How do you do it Tiny Journal? You hold the restless emotions that are constant as the sun but block everything from view. You hold the break of the waves back as each word appears as each tear falls. You withstand the emotional torrent of not feeling accepted by those you want to make proud. You withstand the brashness of words turned on you. You block the feeling of unwantedness and desperation. You block the stones that are thrown as you watch in silence, letting the frustration of others rain down upon you. You stand resilient against giving up no matter how much you just want the pain to end. You stand against the tidal wave that hovers above you, threatening you with the things you care for most while saying they understand. You hold back the tears that want to overflow and be let loose. You hold back the emotions placed on you that threaten to crash over you; drown you. You keep going, forging on as the hurricane rages around you. You push back the pain and put others first, letting them write what ails them. You let them be your voice that will never be heard. Oh, Tiny Journal, how thankful the girl with dark hair and dark eyes is to have you. How thankful she is to express herself on your pages that are blank no more. Thank you Tiny Journal, for accepting her and letting her tell you things she is too scared to tell others. Thank you Tiny Journal for listening to her when she feels her world is crashing down around her. Thank you Tiny Journal for being there for her when she felt that there was nothing left for her. Tiny Journal, thank you for giving the girl with dark hair and dark eyes a chance.

The secrets you hold and the stories that are left untold are embedded into the very soul of your pages. Emotions come Alive as each word is whispered onto the sheer blankness of your pages. The unspoken feelings of love and loneliness, unity and Diversity, fright and hope, are all woven into the poems you hold. The secrets of untold mysteries of the swirling hurricane of choked down emotions pelt your pages as the graphite leaves its mark. The curved edges of tiny words written and rewritten are impressed on your paper. You hold everything to the girl with dark hair and dark eyes. You hold the deepest feelings that have been pushed and buried six feet down under the soil of “I’m fine” and “I’m okay.” They say that the eyes are the portal to one’s soul, but you are the portal to hers. You are the portal to the room filled with the sweet intoxication of velvety scents with papers and laundry scattered across the carpeted floor. You are the portal to the girl with tanned skin and chapped lips who is riddled with longing and desperation. You are the portal to the hurt that festers under her skin. You are the portal to the light and dark of the shipwreck laid out before you. You are the portal to her relief. You are the portal to her hope that she will be okay. Tiny Journal, you are the portal to me.