Two notebooks sit on my desk, wedged in place by a ceramic lamp and a speaker. They are identical, and they are opposing. A contrast of colour, and of purpose.

One is bright, warm, vibrant. It holds the weight of my heart, and there is a thread of amusement in the misalignment. Was that vibrant colour chosen by my subconscious? A way to counterbalance what I knew would eventually fill the crisp, lined pages—inevitable. A desperate call for light. How slowly it fills up, how seldom it is slid from its position. But even closed in place, that warmth is therapeutic. In its very existence, this notebook fulfills its purpose. It is a promise of the future I so desperately crave, that I so relentlessly drag myself toward, with an outward smile and an internal bleed. It is the sign I give myself that I do not want to give up.

The other notebook is serene, muted. It is the colour of the ocean when the sky is grey, of the rain. It is a colour to lull me deeper, to guide my immersion in the darkly radiant ocean of my mind and all that exists there, desperate to emerge. Its pages are cleaner, somehow, more inviting. The colour of the generic blue ball-point pen flows more easily, with words fragmented but holding sharp and fateful meaning. Words decipherable by only me, words of endless possibility and secrets only I can tell. Its corners are worn, its cover stained with coffee. It is favoured, anointed. It is the reason I cannot give up.

Sweet dissonance, my notebooks. Two parts of a whole, or two parts of infinity. They are filled with the thoughts of my mind, real and imagined, concrete and fleeting, light and dark, and the endless grey of in between.